


Razed & Rebuilt

by SpangleBangle



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Anger Management, Asexual Character, Awkward First Times, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paradise Worldbuilding, Past Character Death, Post-The Death Cure, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Themes, Spoilers for The Maze Runner Files, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpangleBangle/pseuds/SpangleBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho struggles to be the leader the others need him to be, while trying to cope with the aftermath of The Death Cure. Trying to mould a group of strangers into a working community, cope with his nightmares, find ways of feeding all these people, and adjusting to how his friends have changed. It's not all bad, but it sure aint easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been two months since their escape to the new reality. Two months of swallowing guilt and nightmares and the creeping sense of still being watched, of background paranoia and unease. Two months of pushing it all down with hard work, trying to get this small – but still larger than the Glade – community organised and busy. The first week had been the toughest; Minho had naturally taken on the mantle as leader, organising people into teams to find shelter and resources. After trekking through the grassy fields for about a day, they had found a small wood, larger than what they had had in the Glade, though the trees weren’t as tall or broad or substantial. These were willowy and short, young still, and didn’t provide as much shade or cover. But they were a source of wood – thankfully some of the Immunes had thought to raid the Glade’s remaining weapons supplies for knives and machetes and the like – and once into the treeline they were sheltered from the wind that had picked up throughout the day. They had shared around what food supplies the Immunes had been given prior to their incarceration in the Maze, and huddled up on the floor, trying to find a more comfortable patch of tree roots.

Minho remembered laying there, staring up at the canopy with his head pillowed on his arms, trying to keep his eyes closed and willing sleep to come. Willing the thoughts away, flashes of memory, anxieties over the people left behind. Trying to get his heart to slow down as he relived the frantic, last Maze run. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he remembered waking up in a cold sweat with a scream clenched behind his teeth, the sound of the wind in the trees having made him dream of that awful time out in the desert, in the storm, of the lightning. He remembered sitting up and running his hands over the tree roots, convincing himself of where he was and what had happened since. He remembered the sound of his breath, harsh as if he’d run for hours, slowly settling as the nightmarish memory receded. Then looking up, with a flush of embarrassment, hoping no one had seen. Seeing Thomas not far away, lying next to Brenda, his eyes reflecting the pale moonlight and watching Minho. They had stared at each other for a minute before Thomas carefully extracted himself from under Brenda’s arm and came to sit beside his friend. They hadn’t said anything, just sat and watched the trees sway in the wind. At some point Thomas had rested his hand on top of Minho’s, and they gripped each other as if to let go would send them flying apart. Just watching the trees, until their heads were nodding and their eyes drooping.

The next day the Immunes had begun to split as it was depressingly obvious they couldn’t support a community of four hundred-odd people in one place. They had split into groups of fifty or so, each with their own leader, and went their separate ways, though each leader promised to keep in contact with the other groups once they found a place to support themselves. Minho’s group had decided to stay in the woods and unsurprisingly contained the last of the Gladers, even Gally. The trees were familiar, and they knew how to eke an existence from that landscape.

The weeks after had involved building shelter and finding food, mainly. There was a water source further into the woods and Minho had organised some people with knowledge of wells to start investigating. Others, he had assigned to collecting fallen wood and branches to make low, makeshift enclosures for groups of people to sleep in at night. Others, to finding edible plants and searching for game, armed with tools pilfered from what had remained of the Glade. It had felt almost reassuring to be back in charge, to make decisions and see all these people, even adults twice his age, nod and do as he had instructed. It brought back powerful memories of Alby and Newt and Ben, and the early days in the Glade. He remembered what Alby had done to keep people motivated, to convince them to work together even when fights arose, how the discipline of community kept them all going. He remembered long nights talking with Alby over how to adjust things, what to do. The development of the group designations, the daily routine. It sure was harder without a monthly Box to send them supplies, but he knew once they had spent a few weeks improving things and getting by with everyone getting enough to eat, that they would be okay. After a little while, the memories of his deceased friends stopped haunting him and he could think back with, if not happiness, at least contentment that he was doing the best he could, and that they had enjoyed their time together.

He had watched as Thomas, Frypan and Gally threw themselves into whatever roles he asked of them. Frypan had returned to his post of cook and chief of the food gatherers with gusto, clearly relishing the return to whatever normalcy he could take. When Minho had asked, Frypan had refused to say anything about his newly returned memories of his life before the Glade. He hadn’t said anything about them yet, and Minho suspected he never would. He seemed content enough to return to cooking and organising his group of other cooks. Gally had talked to him soon after settling, reassuring Minho that he didn’t want to be the leader, but that he would take charge of the builders again. Minho had agreed, and they had silently and mutually assented not to cross each other’s path too often. They got along best from a distance, always had, and Gally seemed to bend all his attention on making sure they had shelter. He worried about Thomas, though. Minho had asked him after a few days whether he would rather be the leader. Thomas had shuddered and said he never wanted to have to make decisions over other people’s lives ever again. He was happy being part of the team, and seemed to enjoy his work with the foragers, running out into the wood to scout for new plants, memorising the lay of the land, scouting out the plains to see what else was out there.

But even as the community of Immunes began to integrate, to break out of the natural groupings and become one loose group, just like the Gladers had done, Thomas kept apart. He kept to himself, or to Brenda and Minho’s company. He slept in the crook of a tree rather than in one of the slowly-improving group huts. He did his work well, and reported to whoever was in charge, but rarely said anything that wasn’t required. He retreated into himself and woke most nights, and they would seek each other out for silent company until they could fall asleep again.

Minho took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking out at the plain of grass like a sea under the stars. Two months of slowly making a community from dribs and drabs of strangers from all walks of life, slowly uniting them and building a place of their own. Being in charge of it felt like healing, like atonement, for all the harsh decisions and poor choices and mistakes he’d made as leader of the A team. It felt like remembering Alby and all the friends he’d lost. Honouring them. He’d forced himself into every role, trying to honour Alby’s ideas about how a leader should be willing to do everything he asks others to do, of getting to know the people under his command and care, learning names and whatever histories they gave themselves. Letting them see he cared.

_I hope I’m doing okay, Alby. I sure do miss you. You’d be way better suited than me_ , he thought to the stars. Naturally they didn’t reply, but he imagined Alby would just roll his eyes and tell him to stop being so moody. It put a smile on his face.

Somehow, inevitably, his thoughts wound back to Thomas as they usually did. He sighed again. Worry roiled in his gut like usual these days, concern for how Thomas isolated himself mixed with the guilty, almost furtive longing he had suppressed through the Trials as much as he could. He knew he had to do something about it soon. Ever since they had first spoken, Minho had felt drawn to Thomas. To his fierce curiosity and shuck-damned stubbornness, his determination to find out _why_ they had been put in the Maze. His loyalty to a boy he’d known for less than a handful of days, instinctively and purely good, even when Minho had panicked and left his oldest friend for the Grievers. He closed his eyes against the shame of the memory. That night in the Maze with Thomas had been intense – seeing how the other boy refused to give up, had outsmarted the Grievers and the Maze and found a way to survive and keep Alby safe. How his whole being had seemed alive and bursting with energy and the need to understand and survive, and how he had folded in on himself once the danger was past, had curled up on the ground and trembled. How he had let himself be vulnerable, and fuck whoever would judge him. How he had picked himself up off the ground, dried his eyes, and immediately suggested they find Alby.

Minho opened his eyes again and let himself indulge in his thoughts. Of how he had felt pulled to Thomas. The energy in him, the fierce brain working behind his intense gaze, demanding answers of the indecipherable and finding an escape code where all anyone had seen before was random movements designed to make it harder for them to escape. Even him, arguably the most experienced Runner. That mad, brutal dash to the Griever Hole, with Gladers falling left and right and all Minho could think was _protect Thomas, protect Thomas, get them to the Hole_ and shouting his throat raw.

And the twisting in his chest as Thomas screamed for Chuck, the surprise and shamefully-violent urge to join him in pummelling Gally, his muscles taut and ready. But he hadn’t been able to stand the wild, broken screaming as Thomas held Gally down and demolished his face, the total loss of control and compassion and sense. It had frightened him, the wildness lurking, ready to pounce under Thomas’ skin. And he had recognised it in himself, even as he pulled Thomas away from Gally. He felt it sympathetically in his own heart and brain and soul, the need to relieve these torturous feelings through brute force.

He twisted a grass stem in his fingers as memories of the Scorch rose up. The confusion, uncertainty, betrayal at all that had been done to him. The feeling of strength and unity as he and Thomas and Newt supported each other and kept the Gladers moving forwards together, how they had dared the desert to destroy them and picked each other up – picked Minho up from a pit of flames – and forced each other to carry on with a single purpose. The rage always just under the surface, with any strong emotion able to bring it roaring forth, even when he _knew_ it had been stupid to attack Jorge, he hadn’t been able to control himself, the need to just spill the horrid turmoil on the sand and get it out, get it out, get it _out_ of his brain… so many times during that journey, he had thought this Flare disease thing was taking him over, turning him into one of those mindless, feral Cranks…

He remembered with a shudder the roaring fury that had coursed through him after Thomas and Brenda had been separated from the group in the tunnels, how concern for his friend’s safety, the pervasive feeling that he was crushed under the rubble somewhere, had sparked the oil on his temper. He took a deep breath as the merest echo, still terrible in its intensity, lit his head aflame and had his chest constricting and fists bunching just to recall that terrible first hour, until Newt had gotten through to him that they needed to move on and hope that Thomas would find them again. How his temper had flared again as group B found them and took him away, took him to be killed and there was nothing Minho could do…

He took another deep breath and carefully unclenched his fists. He didn’t want to get trapped in these thoughts again. He spent too much time already obsessing over everything that had happened in the month or so after escaping the Maze. Being crushed up against Thomas and the others as they waited out the clock in that pod, waiting for the lightning to subside and WICKED to show up and let the Trials be over, being shamefully aware of his friend’s body and breathing as they listened to the lightning strikes and screams of people dying outside mixed with the whirring of Berg engines descending. Being taken away from his friends and waking up in a blank room, terrified for a minute that it was the Maze all over again, that they’d wiped his memories again. His Phase 3. Sick bastards. He swallowed revulsion – although his decision had immediately been to save everyone, his heart had screamed for Newt and Thomas to be saved. He would have to live with the memory of that impulse for a long time, no matter that he had chosen _all_ of them, even Teresa, because screw WICKED and their trials and they all deserved to live, no matter what.

Escaping WICKED. Newt’s downspiral. Creeping through Denver on high alert, certain that someone would see them and immediately know them as WICKED test subjects and hand them over, the constant fear that his shirt would slip and someone would see the tattoo that proclaimed him nothing more than a glorified rat in a cage, escaped and running frantically around the air vents, bereft of purpose now the cage was gone while the scientists set traps and waited for him to come out in the open to be put back in his proper place. He shuddered and ran a hand over the back of his neck, always expecting to be able to feel the words stamped on his skin like a raised welt. Finding Gally and Hans. Thomas screaming and thrashing as they held him down while WICKED raged in his brain. Disgust welled up in him again at how he’d been forced to pin his friend down, using his strength to hurt and confine rather than protect. The bruises that had been left on Thomas’ skin, never acknowledged and now long-gone, but that Minho saw in his mind’s eye every time Thomas rolled up his sleeves, large prints matching his hands. Brutal, careless, thoughtless. He looked down at those hands in his lap and sighed.

Newt in the Crank Palace, his old friend distorted and twisted and full of a rage Minho had never seen in him, a despair he’d seen only once, and from that moment Minho knew he had begun to grieve. His friend was gone – or about to be Gone – and there was nothing he could do. Newt had forced them to leave, the most bitter goodbye, and that was the last Minho would ever see of the bright, snippy boy who had helped make their time in the Maze bearable and sane. The boy who, with Alby, had brought lightness and community to what could have easily descended into despair. The boy who had hidden his fear and hopelessness between smart comments and helpful advice, then learned to smile for real after ‘falling’ from a wall. The boy who had found his purpose in his friends, found his reason to live in the goal they had to believe in. The boy who had grimly held on to spite the people who had done this to them, gritted his teeth and fought out of the hell of the Maze, marched through the desert and survived a town of Cranks and crossing the mountains and the final test, determined to survive and make his life matter. Who had screamed and barely looked at Minho the last time they had seen each other.

Minho braced his arms on his knees and rested his forehead on them, taking slow breaths and willing the painful thoughts and memories away. They caught up with him far too easily when he wasn’t working, when he wasn’t busy with something else. They smothered him when he tried to sleep, swirled around him when he was alone, choked him when his memories blurred and he thought he saw Alby with the well team or Newt going out scouting with Thomas or Ben helping Frypan around the fire. His eyes burned but tears wouldn’t fall. He’d spent too long repressing the need for them, forcing himself to be strong and to let others assume he was untouchable and their Leader. He wished they would fall, even gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his arm to spike pain, just this once so he could let the pressure go.

Memories of their final day before the Flat Trans crowded in before he could push them away. Being ambushed and imprisoned with the other Immunes, rage and terror bubbling in his blood ready to boil with the fear they were being put back in the Maze, given back to WICKED again, put back in the cage with all memories of their time outside seared away. Thomas being taken, _no, no, no, not him too_ and announcing they were working with the Right Arm and running off with Brenda, leaving Minho behind without a proper goodbye or a hug or anything but a glance. Watching him leave, terrified his last friend would be snatched from him too. Fighting with the Right Arm with every breath reminding him that Thomas was locked inside WICKED and could be dead already. Finding him in the compound and wanting to hold him close and cry and kiss his dumb fucking face and refuse to let him go, but having to just follow as they went back in. Back to the Maze as if no time had passed. Reliving that sick dash to the Griever Hole _again_ , seeing Chuck and all the other boys they’d lost along the way running in the crowd of strangers. Seeing the ceiling collapsing, terror freezing him as he was unable to do anything, forced to watch as Teresa did what he could not, pushing Thomas out of the way and vanishing under the huge block of masonry.

Poor Teresa. He had hated or distrusted her for most of their acquaintance, but he couldn’t feel sorry for it. Even now, even knowing she had been manipulated and cruelly tricked as the rest had been, even knowing she had tried to do what she thought was right, even knowing she and Thomas had made their peace and she had sacrificed herself for him. He had chosen to save her as well in his Phase 3, but it didn’t negate his feelings for her. Choosing not to let her die wasn’t the same as forgiveness, or at least not to Minho. He couldn’t forgive her for what she had done, or put away the feelings he had concerning her, but he could feel pity that she hadn’t had the chance to make a new life for herself. He could feel guiltily grateful for her sacrifice, and try to be a better person. Hope that someday he could forgive her.

He took another deep breath and focussed again on the memories that tugged at him, demanding to be brought full circle. Pulling Thomas along and going through the Flat Trans. Wanting to finally get that hug but turning and seeing Brenda leaning in to him. Sickly disappointment and the feeling he had missed his chance. Looking at him and seeing the raw grief and exhaustion and grim understanding, seeing the curious, sarky, fierce boy who had followed him into the Maze and led him out changed, replaced by this weathered, defeated young man. Seeing that young boy whose goodness had compelled him to run into the Maze to help two people he’d only met a few days before, seeing him buried and put away like old outgrown clothes. Not forgotten or dead, just different. He had longed to hold him, touch his face, kiss him, but had held back. In his lonelier moments he relived that decision, imagined taking Thomas in his arms and saying comforting words he knew he wasn’t capable of vocalising, stroking his hair and protecting him, telling Thomas he would always be there for him, that he wanted to be close, to hold his hand and help him smile again.

He sighed, raised his head from his arms and looked out at the grass plain. _Are we done with this now, brain?_ The thought to himself, annoyed. _Are we done riding the sad bus to the end of the line now?_

Apparently. The rush of memories subsided, leaving him empty and exhausted on the treeline, watching the endless sea of grass waving gently as the stars shone coldly down. His thoughts were silent at last, devoid even of small worries over how they would manage for much longer on foraged food, without crops or domesticated animals. Just silence. Echoing between his ears and all around him.

After some time, he heard footsteps. He didn’t bother turning around; he had been a Runner, after all, and he’d developed a knack for understanding people’s gaits. Thomas sat beside him on the earth, knees up with elbows resting on them. Minho watched him from the corner of his eye for a while, waiting to see if he would break the silence. Sometimes it was enough just to sit together and observe the world. Small comforts.

Thomas looked especially tired tonight, he noticed. Neither of them had been sleeping well recently, and the lack of dietary variation was showing in everyone. Thomas’ eyes looked sunken in a thinner face, cheeks drawn and lips tightly clenched. His jaw and nose leapt out from his skin and his brows seemed permanently creased. Thomas’ eyes flicked to meet Minho’s, and he knew he didn’t look much better, if generally bulkier and taller. They looked at each other for a while and Minho waited.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Thomas said eventually, his voice rough and tired.

Minho raised his eyebrows questioningly. Thomas looked away and swallowed, skin tight around his eyes as if steeling himself for something. Minho’s hand twitched with the need to smooth his forehead or hold his hand, just to touch him.

“I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t need to say it, that I should let it go and never tell you, just deal with this on my own. I never wanted to tell you. But it’s eating me alive and I can’t cope on my own. I need your help, though I definitely don’t deserve it.”

This time Minho’s hand didn’t just twitch. He gripped Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed in support. Anguish washed briefly over Thomas’ face and he looked up to the sky, taking shaky breaths as his eyes glimmered wetly in the low light.

“Tell me.”

“I killed Newt.”

It didn’t explode out of him or echo out into the night. It didn’t strike Minho like a physical force. It slipped out as if it had been behind Thomas’ teeth the entire time and it was finally time to let it go, like a breath held for too long slowly released. It settled in the air between them like a third person, waiting for acknowledgement. Thomas turned to look at him, tears dislodged from his eyes with each blink. For some time Minho couldn’t read his face and realised he was just staring, both waiting for something else to be said. Minho just blinked, kept breathing, and watched his face.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas offered after a while, hands shaking visibly as his eyes continued to water. “I’m so sorry, Minho. It was when me and Brenda were travelling to WICKED. In Denver. There was a group of Cranks nearby and I saw Newt, and.” Thomas’ face crumpled and he spoke through clenched teeth as he sobbed. Wretched. “And he begged me to kill him. He’d given me a letter before we left WICKED but I didn’t read it in time so he refused to come with us from the Crank Palace. I failed him, Minho, all he asked was that I kill him before he turned into a Crank, and I failed, and then seeing him there he was still so angry with me.” Thomas paused to wipe his face, breathing in tears and hiccups as his words wrenched from his throat. “He told me to kill him, to put him out of his misery and do it. So – so I did. I shot him in the head and I ran.” He broke down and covered his face as he wept. His frame convulsed with each heaving sob twisted from his chest. All control abandoned him and he wept like he had after surviving the Grievers, unselfconsciously and desolately. He rocked in on himself as he poured out his grief and pain and anguish.

Minho just watched, his hand still clenched around Thomas’ shoulder. He felt as if he were watching from a great distance, his eyes disconnected from his body. Thomas’ confession slowly worked through to his mind, his words presenting themselves slowly, meaningless at first on their own, then culminating in slow, numb understanding. Thomas had shot Newt. Easy to understand the words, after all, but much harder to comprehend. He wasn’t sure how he felt. Numb, mostly. Some part of him wondered if he’d already known, if Thomas’ exclusion had made more sense than he had wanted to see. The fact of the thing settled into him and he was left to watch as Thomas rocked and shook.

“Fucking say something,” Thomas gasped.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know! Just something. Tell me you hate me, you never want to see me again. Hit me, run me into the grass, I don’t care. Just don’t sit there as if everything is alright and I didn’t kill your best friend.”

Minho measured out his blinks and heartbeats and breaths, marking how long it took for words to form in his head.

“Thomas,” He said slowly. “I’ve been grieving Newt for over two months. I always thought he was dead. He stopped living once the Flare got to him. He stopped being the friend I knew, that we knew, when he chose to stay at the Crank Palace. I’m not angry with you.”

Thomas steadied out his shaky breathing and wiped his face. “That’s it?”

A touch of anger disturbed the numbness. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t really feel anything about it right now. I guess…” He frowned and looked down at his lap, his throat tight. “I guess if anything, I’m glad to know for sure. And I guess it’s better that you did it, did what he wanted, than for him to get done in by some Crank past the Gone. At least he got what he wanted.”

Dimly, he registered coolness on his cheeks and heat behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and released it slowly over several heartbeats as tears finally, slowly, trickled down his cheeks. The numbness was fading. He leaned back to lay on the ground, staring up at the sky through blurry vision.

Newt. Alby. Ben. Zart. Chuck. Jeff. Clint. Winston. Jack. Tim. Stan. Frankie. Teresa. And all the others who had died in the Maze or along the way.

Just him, Gally, Frypan and Thomas left now of Group A.

He felt the tears rolling past his ears onto the earth and let them flow at last, imagining the pain of grief siphoning from the well in his heart and away, into the dirt and grass where it couldn’t hurt him. He let the quiet, huffing sobs shake his chest and clench his guts, and watched the stars shining uncaringly in the cold sky. He could feel Thomas watching him and didn’t attempt to hide his face. When the sobs had lessened but the tears still flowed, Minho turned his hand palm up towards Thomas. After a moment, Thomas lay down with him and took his hand, their bodies close enough that they could share body heat. Minho laced their fingers together and held on tightly, a wordless plea in his thoughts to the universe, begging whatever was out there to let him keep one friend at least.

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas whispered. Minho thought he might be crying again too, but didn’t turn to look.

“You did what he wanted, in the end. He got his escape the way he wanted it. Maybe that’s for the best.” Minho replied, voice husky from tears.

Thomas squeezed his hand firmly and shuffled closer, bumping shoulders and hips, their hands clasped rigidly between their legs.

“We’re all that’s left now.”

“And Gally, and Frypan,” Thomas added.

“How did you cope with losing Teresa?” Minho asked. Since her death, Thomas hadn’t mentioned her at all, had kept himself apart and refused to acknowledge his grief to anyone. Maybe Brenda, Minho didn’t know.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve done it.”

“Fair.”

There was a moment’s pause. “Were you and Newt together, Minho?”

Minho wanted to smile, but his face felt too stiff. “Not really. Me and Alby were, at first.” It felt odd to talk about it. All the Gladers had known at the time, but it hadn’t been worth discussing. It was just known that some of them had paired off, and no one had thought much of it. “We were in the first group sent up, did you know that?”

Thomas made an assenting sound. He could feel Thomas’ eyes on his face but kept speaking to the sky. “Newt came up a couple of months after. He helped us all stay together. Glade glue right from the start. Him and Alby got together after a while.” Minho shrugged. “It happens. We were all close, though. The three of us ran the place, really. Meetings and Keepers aside. We kept it all together.”

Minho reached up with his free hand and wiped his face, clearing his throat. He remembered the day he and Alby had decided they were better off friends, and when Newt had asked him if it was okay to ‘step out’ with Alby. Silly slinthead. A hundred nights spent together in a contented trio, inventing stories and working through problems and making each other laugh. The first time Alby had kissed him, how they’d met together in the woods and figured out how to fit together. The three of them watching the sun rise one time, laying out like this in the main clearing without a word, affection and friendship and love of all kinds shared in the air between them. Playing pranks on each other, and Frypan and Zart and the others. That time Newt had trapped a beetle blade under Alby’s jacket, the screams he’d made when he thought a snake was under there, how they’d laughed until their eyes streamed and their sides ached.

“I miss them,” Minho said, a smile slowly working its way onto his face as his tears dried and stopped. “I miss them, but I’m glad you’re my friend too, Thomas.”

He felt Thomas’ thumb sweep gently over the back of his own and a little bittersweet surge welled up in his chest. A question was on his lips, a confession of his own, but he was afraid the memory of Teresa was too close to let it be spoken. He was afraid that if he said it, if he asked Thomas to return his feelings, he would pull away and this little space of time where they could lie close together staring at the stars in this new place they had built, would vanish like a dream.

“I’m glad I’m here with you.” Thomas replied quietly, his thumb moving in shy, warm arcs.

Silence settled, only a little broken by the distant sounds of Frypan serving up a meal some distance back in the woods, the far-off murmurs of conversation, a young baby laughing, maybe a few people singing. Crickets out in the grass, the steady pulse of his heart, the cool breeze ghosting over their bodies. Soreness in his eyes and chest but stillness in his heart and the line of Thomas’ body resting still against his. Minho let the peace of the moment, the ghostly happiness of better times with his friends, and the warmth and closeness of Thomas beside him, seep into him. He catalogued everything carefully from all senses, making sure he could reimagine it later when he needed comfort.

“I wrote a message to you, when I was waiting for WICKED to operate on me,” Thomas said, his voice subdued. “When I thought I was going to die. I thought there wasn’t much point keeping secrets.”

Minho turned his head to look at Thomas, admiring the profile of his features against the sky. Seeing how a lot of the tension and anxiety had drained from his face. His eyes were bloodshot but his brow and mouth were more relaxed. He swallowed again and Minho watched the bob of his throat.

“It was a mess. I wrote about Newt, about how sorry I was to be going to my death and leaving you. How sorry I was to be saying it in a letter after my death than when I was alive. How I was sorry I’d never taken the opportunity to tell you.” He turned to meet Minho’s gaze, his face calm and serious. “I’m glad you never saw it.”

“Thank you for telling me about him like this instead,” Minho replied.

“I would have put more in the letter, if I’d had time.”

“In your death letter.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to know,” Minho said. Thomas’ eyebrows shot up. “I don’t want to know what you would’ve put in the shuck-damned letter for me to read after your death. I want to know what you’re trying to say to me now, right here. Not what you would’ve said thinking you were about to die. I want to know what you’re trying to work yourself up to say in this moment here, where we’re both alive.”

Thomas blinked at him for a little while, then raised their clasped hands and kissed the back of Minho’s hand.

“That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“What about Teresa?” Minho asked, the back of his hand tingling and his heart doing funny things in his chest.

Thomas’ eyes tightened again. He sighed heavily but didn’t pull away. “I think we were together before the Maze. I thought I was in love with her after that. But whatever it was, it broke when I thought she’d betrayed me. I miss her, I wish she were here, but I don’t feel that way about her, even in memory. You slinthead.”

“And Brenda?”

“Come on Minho, she’s my friend.” Thomas threw him a hurt look. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel about you and you’re just completely ruining it.”

“Professional moment killer, that’s me.” Minho replied. He twitched a smile and after a moment saw it echo on Thomas’ face. “I wanted to be sure you weren’t saying it out of, I dunno, grief and that huge moment we just had. I didn’t want you to delude yourself into feeling something you don’t.”

“Fair,” Thomas sighed, settling to look at him again. “Do you feel the same about me?”

Minho rolled his eyes, trying to keep a straight face. “Now that’s just tragic. Remove your hand from mine immediately.”

Thomas shoved him with a short laugh. “C’mon, I’m trying not to assume anything here.”

“Good that,” Minho smiled. “While platonic hand-holding is definitely awesome, feel free to assume this isn’t so platonic. Permission granted.” He squeezed Thomas’ hand and did the thumb-sweeping thing back to him. “It’s at least 99 percent true. Possibly more.”

“Shuck-face,” Thomas muttered, settling closer beside him, resting their hands on top of his leg. Minho smiled and turned to rest his cheek against the top of Thomas’ head. Thomas sighed quietly and turned into him a bit. “Should we kiss or something?”

“If you want.”

“I’d rather stay here for a bit.”

“Fair.”

Thomas shifted to drape an arm across Minho’s stomach, settling into him more comfortably; Minho shifted his arm around Thomas’ shoulders and held him close as they watched the wind blow through the grass. Thomas rested his cheek on Minho’s shoulder and held his hip. Minho felt the ghost of Alby on his other side like a cold wind, reminding him of times they had lain together like this. He took a deep breath and pushed away the grief, concentrating on the warmth of Thomas against his chest, the smell of his skin and the sound of the wind. Everything was okay.


	2. Chapter 2

Minho was out in the woods with a team of people built the same way as him. Each of the five had an axe to hand as they carefully surveyed which trees to fell and how to do it.

“What do you reckon, Jahnavi?” He addressed this to a woman in her late twenties, quite a bit shorter than him but built like a professional weightlifter. She squinted her eyes against the sun slanting down through the canopy and considered the tree he had indicated. She blew out a breath, shaking her long braid of dark hair off her shoulder. “Looks good,” She replied, resting her axe against her shoulder. “We can take it.”

They shared a grin and wandered together as other teams selected trees. Once that was done, they returned to their chosen one. “Alright kiddos,” Jahnavi called out. “Let’s get to work. First team to fell one gets half my dinner tonight.”

The others yelled and jumped to work. Minho stretched his arms and raised his eyebrows at her. She made a face. “We’d better win, Minho. I really want my dinner.”

“Yes sir Captain,” Minho replied and begun to swing.

“I told you, I’m not in the army anymore.” She said in an exasperated voice as they took turns hacking at the tree trunk.

“No sir Captain,” He grinned. She rolled her eyes at him and mimed swinging at him instead of the tree. It was difficult work, with mostly handmade axes, all of which were less than sharp. And even though the trees looked willowy and insubstantial, the wood was tougher than expected. So after a while Jahnavi called a break so they could rest. Minho stripped off his shirt, flapping it to try and cool down. No one said anything – the other guys had done the same and Jahnavi stripped down to a sports bra. But when he took his off there was a measure in the silence that made him turn around.

“What?”

Petro, a quiet boy Minho’s age who was trying to improve his English, pointed. “Scars?”

Minho looked down at himself, suddenly self-conscious. He crossed his arms, set his jaw and looked them all in the eye. “I got struck by lightning in the Scorch, alright? Got burned.”

WICKED had fixed up whatever hadn’t completely healed after Phase 3, but he would have scars to remember the Scorch by for the rest of his life. He wanted to turn his back on them, but remembered the tattoo on the back of his neck and wasn’t in the mood to answer questions about that either.

“It’s alright, Minho,” Jahnavi said from her reclining position on the ground, in an unruffled voice. “Those aren’t very impressive, anyway.” With a grim sort of smile, she rolled up her pants leg to above her knee to show the prosthetic fixed there, and the mess of white and dark brown scars above the joint, way up on her thigh.

“Wow,” Petro said, staring unashamedly. Jahnavi slipped Minho a wink when no one was watching, focussed as they all were on her. He smiled gratefully at her and uncrossed his arms, sitting near her. They all chatted for a while as they cooled down; one of the women, Aubrey, jogged to the water source further in the woods to fill water bottles taken from the Glade, and they sipped slowly.

“Alright, back to work everyone,” Jahnavi announced after a little while. “That dinner’s still on offer.”

They all leapt up and got back to work, shirts and scars forgotten. Minho found himself smiling; it was good to be able to use his strength for something other than fighting or survival. And it was incredibly satisfying to see the tree start to waver.

“Tim-ber!” Jahnavi yelled joyfully as it crashed to the ground, safely in the direction they’d intended. “Suck it, no extra dinner for anyone!” She held up her hand and Minho hi-fived her, laughing as the others moaned and grumbled.

“Let’s get this down to proper size then,” Minho smiled, stretching out his shoulders and back before they got back to work stripping the branches off and cutting the trunk into two smaller sections.

“You seem happy today,” Jahnavi commented.

“It’s a good day.”

“Really, though.”

“Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“Of course you are,” Jahnavi replied with a kind smile. “It’s good to see.” She reached over and squeezed his arm.

He looked down at the tree, his cheeks heating a bit. After settling in the woods the first night out of the Maze, they had butted heads a little. She was older, more experienced, ex-army, and hadn’t just gone through an incredibly traumatic two months. Several of the Immunes had taken exception to Minho’s automatic leadership and suggested Jahnavi should lead instead. She had refused, saying she’d had enough of giving people orders. She’d suggested instead to help Minho as his second in command. At first there had been boundary issues over the difference between a polite suggestion or a straight-out order, but in time they’d adjusted to each other. Now she was what he imagined an older sister would be like. But still, Minho wasn’t terribly used to expressions of affection from anyone outside of his age group.

She laughed affectionately at him and lightly slapped his cheek, just a playful tap. He grinned with her, throwing a handful of leaves at her, before they got back to work.

After about another hour of stripping their tree and helping the others, Minho heard running feet approaching. He paused and waited, trying not to smile. Jahnavi watched him curiously until the sound of a runner became more obvious. After a minute, Thomas appeared through the trees, running at a fast but relaxed pace. He clapped eyes on Minho and stumbled a bit, slowing down after that. Minho smiled and waited, hands on hips, for him to get his breath back.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Thomas panted, face a bit red as he fought to keep his eyes on Minho’s face. “Runner from one of the other groups came in, said they found a herd of wild pigs off to the east. They took three pairs to start domesticating them, and he said he can give us directions to the herd.”

“That’s great,” Minho smiled, passing Thomas his water bottle. Thomas drank, eyes darting up and down. Minho might have felt self-conscious with the others looking at him, but from Thomas it was just gratifying. “Let’s get back then, maybe we can get a team together today.”

Thomas nodded and handed him the bottle.

“I’ll be back to help with this,” Minho promised Jahnavi, gesturing at the tree.

She just grinned, obviously incredibly amused. “Take your time.” When Thomas wasn’t looking, she gave Minho a thumbs up and a meaningful wink. He rolled his eyes but didn’t comment as she mouthed ‘adorable!’ to him. He flapped a hand at her and collected his things, rolling up his shirt to carry. He and Thomas set off, jogging easily together.

When they were out of earshot, Minho let out a short laugh. “You pile of klunk, Thomas.”

“What?” Thomas replied, grinning shyly at him. “I wasn’t expecting the full gun show, alright?”

Minho laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair. Thomas ducked and swatted at him playfully. “Can’t blame you, it’s a great show.”

“You’re impossible.”

They grinned happily to each other, both a bit flushed. As they got closer, Minho slowed to put on his shirt. He noticed Thomas trying to be subtle about watching him. “Honestly, Thomas, I’m not a piece of meat. I have feelings, you know.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and tutted. They walked in to the main clearing together and sat down to question the runner from the other group. He looked a couple of years older, narrow with long red hair messily tied back in a bun. He nodded on seeing them and finished drinking his bottle of water.

“Minho, right? I’m James.”

Minho nodded and shook his offered hand. “So how has your group settled, then?”

“Not too bad,” James replied, scratching behind his ear and looking around at the trees. “We were travelling for about, I dunno, three weeks? Found some riverland. One of us, someone used to be a teacher, said it’s a delta or estuary or fenland or something? Lots of water, anyway. I can’t remember what she said. But yeah, we’ve been teaching ourselves how to fish mostly. Not really any problems. Our leader’s called Andi, they’re pretty cool. They did a drawing so I could show you, so we can all recognise each other someday.”

“That’s a good idea,” Minho said, looking over the sketch James handed him. From what he could see it showed a person in middle age maybe, black with long wavy hair. “Hopefully someone here won’t mind doing a sketch for you to take back. We should all try and stay a little connected.”

James nodded and smiled. “Sure. I wouldn’t mind a rest anyway, it’s been a long journey back here.”

“No problem, we can put you up for a couple of nights. So what’s this about pigs?”

“One of our scouting parties found them. We reckon they were never actual wild pigs, probably when the sun flares hit some got loose from a farm and started scratching out a living out here somehow. Pretty smart animals. If I had to guess I’d say only a couple of the original herd are still around, so the younger ones are kinda half-wild. They were pretty difficult to get to co-operate.” James replied, fidgeting with his hair.

“Huh,” Thomas muttered. Minho glanced at him, shared a shrug and turned back to James.

“But you got some of them separated? How’s the domestication going?” Minho asked.

“Not too bad, when I left. It was hard getting three pairs separate, they’re vicious bastards. My mates Rick and Anita got seriously banged up, fractured ribs and a broken leg. You guys want to be careful if you go after them.” He paused, looking at Minho and Thomas seriously. They nodded. “Once we drove the two groups apart it was easier. We drove those we took with sticks and noise and stuff.” James grinned. “That was fun. We’d set up a large pen area already, so we drove them in. They’re pretty happy, though they didn’t like us for a while. Once we started feeding them regularly they liked us better. Andi hopes they’ll start breeding soon and we can raise a herd.”

“That’s cool,” Thomas said.

“Yeah. How long do you reckon it would take for us to get there and back?” Minho asked.

James shook his head doubtfully. “I dunno. Andi said to come tell you about them, and they sent out other runners to the other groups as well, but I dunno how it would really work. They were a day’s full run from our camp, and I dunno how we would’ve managed to keep them contained overnight. It was a two week run for me to get here, just on my own.”

They were quiet for a while, each thinking.

“Maybe if we brought fences, make a new pen each night?” Thomas suggested.

“It’d have to be a pretty big party to carry pre-made fence sections and run all day and drive the pigs as well,” Minho frowned. “We’ve only just got the work balance right here, to lose that many people for four to six weeks…”

“Mm,” Thomas agreed, frowning down at the ground. “Less people to feed in the meantime, though. We could stockpile supplies.”

Minho blew out a short breath. “We have to be careful not to exhaust this place, though.”

“Yeah,” Thomas replied. “Damn. I’ll get Frypan and Gally, maybe they’ll have some ideas.” He pushed off from the ground and jogged off. Minho watched him for a few moments.

James had been following their exchange. “He your second in command?”

“Hm, Thomas? No,” Minho smiled down at the ground, feeling vaguely bashful. “We’ve been through a lot together, though. Had to rely on each other a lot.”

James nodded thoughtfully. “It shows. I remember you from before. You two were in those WICKED experiments, right? You lived in the Maze we got stuck in.”

“Mmhmm.”

James nodded again. “Wild. I was only there for a few days, couldn’t imagine living there for years. Kinda explains why you’re the boss here.” Minho looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh, man, I didn’t mean – I meant, ‘cause you’re so young, and there’s obviously older people here.”

“I get what you mean, slim it,” Minho said, flapping a hand vaguely. “There were a couple of issues at the start. But yeah, I was one of the first people put in the Maze, I was there for two years. Helped get the community set up and running, with my friends. So I guess I’ve got more experience than most, with people used to living in cities like Denver.” He shrugged. “And my main competition didn’t want the job, that helped. She advises me instead. ‘Course, it was a bit easier in the Glade, where we got weekly supplies, and we were all in the same boat together rather than a big group of people from all over. We’ve had to seriously adjust to surviving off whatever plants and wild rabbits and birds we can get.”

James grunted in agreement. “Same with us, though we’ve got a pretty good supply of fish from all the rivers, and a fair amount of wild bushes and stuff. Must be harder out here.”

“Yeah. Though the woods have got plenty if you know where to look, the main problem is getting enough for so many people every day.” Minho picked up a stick and started breaking it into pieces, worry making him fidgety. “And ‘cause we don’t know what’s out there really, I don’t want to send scouts out for more than a day’s journey, in case they get in trouble and need help.”

At that point Thomas returned with Gally and Frypan, lightly resting his hand on Minho’s shoulder as he sat. Minho smiled at him and dropped the stick fragments. Thomas made the introductions and James quickly brought Gally and Frypan up to speed.

After another thoughtful silence, Frypan chipped in. “Well, personally I think it would be worth the effort and the risk. There’s only so much longer we can survive just off whatever we think is safe to eat from the woods. We need crops or animals or something, something _stable_. We can’t support this many people this way for much longer. Especially not with those babies as well.” He exchanged a grim look with Minho.

Gally hummed for a minute, then gathered up some sticks and began bundling them together. The others watched him patiently. Eventually, he looked up and realised they were all watching him. He cleared his throat. “I was just thinking about that portable pen idea Thomas had. We might be able to build something that works. I dunno. Give me some time with it.”

“Alright,” Minho nodded to him gratefully. Not for nothing had Gally been Keeper of the Builders. Silence lapsed again.

“You should probably call a gathering or something later, get everyone’s opinions,” Frypan suggested. “In the meantime, I’m needed back at the cookpit. James, right? You want something to eat?”

James eagerly agreed and hurried off with him. Minho, Thomas and Gally looked at each other for a while.

“Thanks for considering my idea,” Thomas ventured.

Gally shrugged, looking back down to his collection of sticks. “It’s a good idea. Might be workable.”

Thomas nodded. “Well, I’d better get back to scouting – I was right in the middle of something when I spotted James.” He stood, lightly trailing his hand up Minho’s back as he did, and gave Gally’s shoulder a friendly slap on his way.

Minho couldn’t quite wipe the pleased smile off his face before Gally turned to him. Deadpan, he raised an eyebrow. Minho grinned and scratched the back of his neck. Gally snorted.

“Good that. Anyway, see you later.”

Gally headed off as well. Minho watched him go, thinking it was nice that things seemed to be headed in a more friendly direction. There had been so much anger and hurt between the three of them over what had happened after Thomas’ arrival in the Maze, Chuck’s death, WICKED and the Right Arm. It was good that both Gally and Thomas seemed to be trying to put it behind them, and Minho was happy to try as well. Gally seemed to have had his more bullying and mean instincts scorched away in his own Trials, and without his sycophants to mimic and support his behaviour, he seemed much more even-keeled. Minho nodded to himself as he jogged back through the woods – those logs wouldn’t collect themselves, and it wasn’t fair to leave it all to Jahnavi. Then he remembered the flustered look on Thomas’ face when he had seen Minho shirtless and an extra bounce lifted his feet and stretched his grin.

Much later, after everyone had come back to base for the evening meal – a soupy mixture of foraged plants and exhaustively selected rabbit meat (Frypan had worked closely with Winston and the Slicers, and knew how to get the most meat off an animal) boiled up with water and thickened with a handful of precious flour scavenged from the Glade, now running worryingly low) Minho stood up and waited for people to notice. After a few moments, Jahnavi very loudly and meaningfully coughed. Then, when that didn’t work, she banged her fist on the table. That got people’s attention.

“Thank you, Jahnavi. I’d like to put something to you all to discuss. Today, we had a runner from one of the other groups…” Minho outlined the dilemma, James adding detail to it. “As you can tell, there are benefits and risks to any option. I’d like to invite you all to discuss it, and come forward with ideas for debate.” He nodded and sat down again, watching as conversation broke out.

He watched as it slowly changed from chaos, with each person trying to get their voice heard and talking over each other, to something more organised as people in each group listened to each other and refined their points, the tones changing from heated and accusatory to more considering. Slowly, each small group mingled with others, listening to each other’s opinions and thoughts, the process repeating over and over again. Minho watched it all, marvelling at the instinctual organisation and range of ideas being shared; he and Jahnavi didn’t speak as they’d already discussed their opinions earlier. Idly, waiting for people to come forward, he watched Thomas and Gally and Frypan in their own group, listening to the passionate defence of a group of older women who had a habit of gesticulating their points. He watched as they all spoke in turn and as Gally appeared to cut off an older man who kept interrupting others, apparently telling him to wait his turn. It made Minho smile and he flicked his gaze over the other groups.

After about half an hour, it seemed that a couple of common arguments were agreed upon. A handful of people stood, ready to put forward their view, and Minho and Jahnavi stood as well.

“Thank you everyone for your time and consideration, I could see lots of interesting discussions going on,” Minho said, pitching his voice to carry. He still felt a bit odd about these big leader-speeches, but quite a few people had said it helped to have a visible leader who could voice concerns. Feeling a bit self-conscious with everyone’s eyes on him, and remembering the way the other fellers had stared at his burn scars, he leaned forward and planted his knuckles on the rough wooden table, gazing around at everyone, looking back just as much as they were watching him. “Let’s open the floor and hear what everyone has to say. Let everyone speak their piece, then we can debate all together. Would you like to start?” He asked a woman on his left, smiling briefly.

She nodded her thanks and began speaking. They went around the crowd in turn, each person putting forward a common point of view. It was interesting to watch the reactions of the crowd – while most were content to listen, there were some people who whispered with their neighbours or shook their heads or raised their eyebrows in disbelief. The viewpoints were generally what he had expected – some argued for sending a small team, some said it was better to keep all hands close to base, some argued a mix of both, some suggested ways of capturing and driving the pigs (he saw Gally nodding thoughtfully to those and conferring in whispers with an elderly man called Li, who had been a carpenter before the sun flares), some said it was folly to stay in the woods and they should all relocate to the fenland. Minho listened to Thomas’ ‘boss’, Andrea, argue for longer scouting parties and teams to go out for up to a week to find more resources before they committed to moving or staying anywhere or going after the pigs; he saw Thomas nodding along, face shadowy in the firelight. On and on it went, until everyone had said their piece.

“Thank you everyone for speaking. Let’s debate.” Minho opened the floor further.

Those who had spoken started questioning each other and arguing back and forth, people raising their hands to show they wanted to speak. Minho did his best to mediate, make sure things were kept constructive and that everyone had their voice heard, calming things when people started shouting. He took note of the most passionate people and those who shook their heads and muttered no matter what was said. For well over an hour they debated, everyone trying to get their opinion heard and, largely, listening considerately to the others. Minho felt a hot swell of pride in his chest as it went on, and straightened up from leaning on the table, listening with his hands on hips. He noticed Thomas watching him but didn’t let it distract him, giving each speaker his full attention. He could feel a headache coming on but ignored it, sipping from the water Jahnavi passed him at some point.

When things seemed to be circling around a group of points without any real progression, he raised his hands to get the crowd’s attention.

“Thank you again to everyone who has spoken, it was wonderful seeing everyone get so invested in the subject,” He smiled briefly, letting his pride in them show through for a moment. Quite a lot of the crowd smiled back. “There were a lot of very interesting points raised there, but I think that’s as far as we’re going to get tonight. James will be here for another few days if anyone has questions, and I strongly encourage everyone to keep discussing the subject. We’ll debate some more tomorrow and come to a decision then. Thank you everyone, good night.”

He nodded and smiled as people clapped politely, then dispersed in small groups to wherever they chose to sleep, most people still chatting animatedly.

“Nicely done,” Jahnavi commented quietly once most people had gone.

“Thanks. I tried.”

“You’re getting more used to this leadership thing, hm?” She smiled, patting his back. “You’re doing great. Now get some rest, we have to work on those trees again tomorrow and you look wrecked. Goodnight.”

“Night, Jahnavi. Thanks.”

She waved as she headed off, and he joined the other Gladers. “That was pretty cool,” Frypan smiled. “I’m off to bed.” He paused by Minho’s shoulder, gripped his arm and said very quietly, “Alby would’ve been proud.”

Minho felt as if his throat had closed up. He couldn’t speak, but nodded stiffly to Frypan, who squeezed his arm to show he understood before leaving. Minho quietly cleared his throat and swallowed to get it working again. “Gally, what did you think of some of those ideas?”

Gally shrugged and crossed his arms. “Me and Li were talking about some of them that seemed workable. Could be tricky, some of them. But I guess not too bad. We’ll talk about it some more tomorrow, see if any would actually be feasible if you decided to go for it.” He shrugged again and headed off. “Later.”

“Thanks,” Minho replied.

“Good that,” Thomas said quietly, watching Gally go.

“Mmhmm.”

“What does that mean?” James asked, overhearing. “’Good that’? I’ve heard it like, six times already.”

Minho and Thomas exchanged a look. “It doesn’t mean much, just some slang that popped up in the Glade,” Minho explained. “It just kinda means, ‘alright, cool’.” He shrugged. “I have no idea where it came from.”

“Huh.” James said. “Good that.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Thomas said. “Took me a while to get used to all the dumb shucky things these idiots said.” He added, glancing sideways at Minho.

James grinned at him. “Cool. I’m gonna head off, so I can be all rested before people start grilling me tomorrow. You know Minho, I reckon Andi would like to meet you at some point. I think you’d get along.”

“Thanks. They sound interesting to talk to.”

James nodded and walked away, leaving Thomas and Minho largely alone. “You did really well,” Thomas said quietly. “Like a real leader.”

“Thank you,” Minho replied, feeling the back of his neck itch. “I was trying to keep things orderly.”

“Well, it could’ve turned into a huge shouting match, so well done.” Thomas gave a small smile and glanced around. “Can we go somewhere?” His hand lightly brushed Minho’s as if it were accidental.

“Sure, lead on.”

He followed Thomas out into the woods, nodding and smiling at people who called out a goodnight or waved. They moved away from the few fires scattered around the camp and into the dark woods, stepping carefully through the underbrush until they could no longer hear even a whisper of the camp’s noises. At length, Thomas stopped. Minho leaned back against a tree, watching Thomas in the dim light filtering down through the trees.

“You did really well,” Thomas said again, reaching out and taking Minho’s hand. Minho smiled and squeezed. “You really are a natural leader, you know. All of WICKED’s games aside, you really are. I was watching you, and it was great to see how you focussed on everyone.”

“Thanks,” Minho replied quietly, rubbing a rough patch on Thomas’ hand. He stepped closer, looking nervous and happy all at once. Minho’s smile stretched wider and he lightly rested his hand on Thomas’ hip. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

“I know,” Thomas said, twitching his eyebrows up playfully. “I was trying all day to think of a way to do this really smoothly and naturally or whatever, couldn’t come up with anything.”

“So you took the direct approach?” Minho grinned, lifting a hand to gently stroke Thomas’ cheek.

“Mmhmm. Is it working?” Thomas smiled, resting a palm on Minho’s stomach.

“I’m practically swooning,” Minho replied, straight-faced. Thomas flicked his chest in mock-annoyance. “Alright, don’t bruise me, goddamn. I’m guessing your masterful, incredibly smooth plan involves kissing at some point?”

“Mmhmm. I just… it’s difficult…”

“It’s okay,” Minho said, stroking his fingers down Thomas’ cheek, admiring the long, clean line of his cheekbones and jaw. “I got you. When you’re ready.”

Thomas nodded and moved his hand a bit, rubbing in slow circles over Minho’s abdomen. Minho listened to their breathing as he stroked gently through Thomas’ hair and over his neck. He was happy just to stand and wait for Thomas to work up the courage; he was a little amused. It didn’t have to be a Big Thing, but if that was how Thomas wanted it then that was fine. He felt the still quiet cool of the night easing his headache and the warm, shy touch of Thomas helping his thoughts slow down and soften, focus just on the now rather than the dozen arguments racing around up there. He sighed quietly and smoothed his other hand over Thomas’ hip to his back, feeling the lean lines of muscle there. Thomas shivered lightly and stepped closer between Minho’s feet on the tree roots, laying his hand on Minho’s chest. He looked up and met Minho’s eyes.

He bit his lip for a moment, then leaned up and hesitantly pressed his lips to Minho’s. What followed was equally hilarious and frustrating. Minho endured his valiant attempts for a few minutes before pulling away.

“Um, Thomas…”

“I know, I know. That was terrible.”

Minho smiled down at his flushed face and gently cupped his cheek. “A bit. It’s okay though. You just need to slim it nice and calm. It’s supposed to be fun, just relax.”

Thomas blew out an exasperated breath, looking embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“You’re overthinking it. Just do what feels good. Like this.” Minho leaned down and kissed him gently, lips brushing and easing together with faint, careful pressure. He stroked over Thomas’ cheek and cradled the back of his neck, tenderly, cautiously, not nearly firm enough to stop Thomas from pulling away. He tried to convey through simple touch his affection, care, and patience as their lips slowly learned the shape of the other’s.

Thomas began to kiss him back with a shaky sigh, warm on their faces, as his hands rested hesitantly on Minho’s chest and hips. Minho smiled into the kiss and rubbed reassuringly through Thomas’ hair, not demanding, not pushing, just letting Thomas dictate what was okay. His thoughts slowed and stilled to nothing but a vague awareness and enjoyment of what was happening, all his attention focussed on sensation. Of all the little contacts between them, the heat of their bodies warming the air around them, the small sounds of their lips and breath, quiet rustlings as the trees swayed in the near-constant, gentle wind. The thumping in Minho’s chest and the way Thomas’ hands clenched and smoothed in his shirt as he gained confidence, the smell of his skin under the day’s sweat and dirt. Everything seemed to constrict to the space around their bodies as they learned each other’s touch.

“Alright?” Minho asked when Thomas pulled back after some time, blinking his eyes open. They were both breathing a little fast.

“Yeah,” Thomas breathed, smiling. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“See, your plan worked,” Minho commented, kissing his forehead.

“Masterfully.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I don’t want to head back yet.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we did.”

“Good.” Thomas leaned up and kissed him again, much more gently this time. Minho sighed happily and held him closer, feeling warm and filled with a particular fondness he didn’t want to name quite yet. Everything felt slow and soft and gentle, thoughts and worries eased away as they wrapped around each other and traded kisses, surrounding themselves in quiet joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like OCs :]


	3. Chapter 3

TW for discussion of suicide, graphic injury, hallucinations.

* * *

 

The next day Minho awoke to see Thomas laying beside him, smiling and watching him blink awake.

“Well hello,” He smiled.

“Morning,” Thomas replied.

“Is everyone up already?” Minho rubbed his face, trying to gauge by the amount of light what the time was.

“Not really, Frypan’s just getting breakfast served.” Thomas reached over and lightly rested his hand on Minho’s chest. Minho linked their fingers together.

“So no one’s around then?”

“Just us in here,” Thomas said, smile widening.

Minho squeezed his hand. “Thomas, you exhibitionist. Holding my hand when we’re in public. I’m shocked.”

With a grin, Thomas shuffled closer and lightly kissed him, the slightest brush of lips. “How about that then.”

“I feel ambushed and seduced and like my virtue is gone forever.”

They grinned at each other as the distant sounds of Frypan calling everyone to the mess area wavered through the air, a long rising and falling shout. Minho sighed and rolled on his side to face Thomas. “Shame about that. If we’re late, someone will talk.”

“And we can’t have that.”

“Absolutely not.” Minho grinned, then kissed him gently. Thomas’ eyes closed and he leaned closer, body relaxing towards Minho. His hand slid up into Minho’s hair and he gave a quiet sigh as he rubbed small circles into his scalp.

“Not fair,” Minho muttered quietly, his own eyelids drooping.  “We have to get up, you know.”

“Not just yet, surely.”

“Once again I am shocked and appalled at you.” Minho smiled, resting their foreheads together. “What’s brought all this on, hm?”

Thomas opened his eyes and traced his thumb over Minho’s jawline. “I’m happy,” He said in a tone of such quiet contentment Minho felt his chest ache. He kissed him a little more firmly for a few moments before pulling away and sitting up.

“C’mon, breakfast. You sap.”

“Asshole,” Thomas said mildly, sitting up as well. “Moment killer extraordinaire.”

“That’s me.” Minho smiled brightly. “Really though, we should get something to eat. Long day.”

“Mmhmm.”

They quickly got changed and headed down to the mess area, joining the end of the line with ease. No one said anything, though Frypan raised his eyebrows at Minho and shook his head with a smile. That guy saw everything. They sat down in their usual group and started eating.

“Hey,” James greeted them as he sat down. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Same as usual, really,” Minho replied, chewing methodically through his plate. “You’re welcome to join in anywhere that needs an extra hand, though you can rest if you’re still burnt out from the journey.”

“We should have a meeting at midday,” Jahnavi interjected, wiping her thumb along the bottom of her plate. “See what people are saying about the Pig Mission.”

“Not everyone,” Gally frowned. “It’ll take everyone away from their jobs.” Minho was a little surprised – although Gally often sat with them, more often now, he rarely said much. He wasn’t a morning person, per se.

“That’s true,” Jahnavi conceded. “Maybe the spokespeople? And the leaders of each job?”

“A Gathering,” Frypan said with a snort. “Sure, why not.”

“The ‘Pig Mission’?” Minho asked Jahnavi, who shrugged.

“What? It needs a name, doesn’t it?”

Minho shook his head, amused. “Okay, whatever. So, a meeting after lunch with all the main people about the _Pig Mission_.” He shook his head again, laughing quietly.

“It’s not _that_ funny,” Jahnavi said.

“I dunno, it’s pretty funny,” Frypan grinned. “Operation Swine would be more soldierly, maybe.”

“Tactic Curlytail.”

“Objective Bacon.”

“Squeal Alpha.”

“Team Trotters.”

“Children!” Jahnavi cried as they fell about laughing. “I’m dealing with children.”

“Mmhmm,” Minho laughed, wiping his eyes. “You sure are.”

She sighed in exasperation, though she smiled. “Alright, yak it up. Meet you by the logs in ten minutes, if you can all pick yourselves off the ground in time from your enormous wits.” She wiped her hands on her trousers and set off into the treeline. They could hear her muttering to herself all the way.

Eventually they did pick themselves up and separated to their respective jobs, James heading off with Thomas to see Andrea about work for the day. Minho helped Jahnavi and the rest of the felling team bring in the rest of the logs and started stripping some of their bark, as per orders of Li and Gally.

At midday Frypan called out again and they gratefully headed in for a rest and something to eat; Minho’s arms were sore from the careful, controlled strokes he’d been making to help Li start to shape beams, requiring more precision than just hacking at the trees as before. Once everyone had eaten something, he called the main spokespeople and leaders of each section to come sit with him. He saw Andrea stop Thomas from leaving, overheard something about a lieutenant. Thomas looked surprised and pleased as he sat down beside her, across from Minho and Jahnavi.

“Thank you, everyone. I was hoping we could meet to discuss how everyone is thinking about the issue of these wild pigs.” He made an expansive gesture, trying not to feel silly, and motioned for them to start talking.

They traded ideas back and forth, most reporting that everyone was talking about and thinking carefully about all the options. It made Minho proud all over again to hear that this little community was pulling together and thinking about all the options and their future. There seemed to be two main camps: those who thought they should take the chance, and those who thought they should abandon the grassland and trees and find somewhere better able to support their group.

“But who knows how we’d support everyone on the move like that,” One person objected. “We have a base here, and some supplies. If we all go ranging off in search of somewhere slightly better – which I doubt has a chance of really being out there in enough abundance for everyone – how will we feed everyone as well as travelling? We’d be like locusts, stripping the land and moving on.” They shook their head. “Better to stay here and send some people out to find these pigs and whatever else they can find. Make our position here strong instead of being constantly uncertain.”

Minho privately agreed, but made sure his expression and voice were neutral when he thanked them for speaking and invited the next person to share.

“That’s all very well,” The woman responded, frowning at the previous speaker. “But how can we realistically support ourselves here in the long term? Sure, we’re always improving our base, and it seemed a good place to settle at first,” She nodded respectfully to Minho and Jahnavi, who nodded back, “But the longer we’re here to more obvious it’s becoming that the resources are definitely finite, and we need more than what’s here. Sure, I was born and raised in a controlled city and all I know about land survival is what I’ve learned in the past two months,” She acknowledged, hand to her chest, “But it seems to me, and the people I’ve spoken to, that we just can’t carry on here. There isn’t enough food, and we have no way of introducing crops. We can’t stay here.”

He thanked her and waved for the next man to speak.

“All the more reason to go find some,” He urged, waving his hands. “We can’t stay here and do nothin’, that’s true, and I think everyone’s come to that pretty lil conclusion. But without any plan of where to go, or any assurance that things will be any fuckin’ easier there, I don’t see the wisdom in that. We should be sendin’ the scouting parties out wider-range, longer-term. Who knows what’s out there – if they can only cover half a day in any direction, how we gonna find anythin’ new?” He looked between Minho and Jahnavi. “Look, I’m not tryna attack you guys. I get that it’s safer to keep everyone close, and we need all hands at the pump. But maybe it’s time to review that decision, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Thank you,” Minho nodded. He felt calm – his resolve over keeping everyone close to base, _back before the Doors close_ , was slowly being gnawed away by doubt.

Andrea raised her hand to speak next. “I agree. We need the ability to really, thoroughly scout our surrounds. There’s only so much so close to base, and we’re already familiar with it. We need to find out what’s out there. Maybe only groups of two or three, for two days, at first. Then we can work with that and find out what’s best. We need to make the most of our environment if we’re expected to survive. I’ve spoken to my scouts and we’re in agreement. We need to see what’s out there.”

_Run the Maze, just in case there’s a door with an exit sign flashing above it._

He noticed Thomas fidgeting, then hesitantly raised his hand. He nodded to him, carefully neutral. He seemed to struggle to find the right words for a few moments. Then he sighed. “Look. Chancellor Paige sent us here for a reason. The Flat Trans was programmed to this location for a _reason_. She wanted us to survive and rebuild – here, specifically. There’s something here worth finding, and we need to scout for it.” He shrugged and looked down at the ground, uncomfortable with everyone’s gaze on him.

Minho exchanged a brief glance with Frypan and Gally. It hit uncomfortably close to the bone – _the Creators put us here for a reason._ Minho rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the hair goosebump over the tattoo.

“Thank you,” He nodded, and gestured for the next person to speak.

They carried on until everyone had spoken. He concluded the meeting, thanked everyone for their considerations, and most people peeled off back to their jobs, leaving the Gladers, Andrea and Jahnavi still sitting down.

“Good luck deciding what to do,” Frypan commented, blowing out a breath. “I can see everyone’s points, to be honest. I dunno what to do.”

“Thanks, Fry,” Minho rolled his eyes with a smile. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“I’m still workin’ on some stuff with Li,” Gally said, picking at the grass between his feet. “We might have something workable for portable pens.”

“Yeah?” Minho asked as encouragingly as he could.

“We’re just havin’ some trouble with the strength of them.” Gally rolled his shoulders, squinting up at the sky. “I wish Newt was here. He’d know how to fix it.”

Grief punched the wind out of Minho’s chest and he had to concentrate on the firm ground under him, eyes tightly closed. He took a short breath and huffed it out, expelling the surge of loss to dissipate on the air. He looked around and saw Frypan hanging his head, Gally’s arm around his shoulders. Gally’s expression was tight with restrained emotion. Thomas’ hands were tightly clenched and his eyes were far away.

Minho reached out to him. “Thomas…”

He flinched away. He met Minho’s eyes, dark with guilt and self-loathing, then in a flash he was gone, sprinting frantically away into the grass. Minho was on his feet without thinking when Jahnavi grabbed his arm.

“Let him go,” She said, tugging his arm. “We have work to do. What’s his problem, anyway?”

He stared after Thomas, anxiety clawing at his throat. He swallowed and slowly, reluctantly sat back down. The others were looking between him and where Thomas had gone curiously. He swallowed.

“He was with Newt when he died.”

There was a stunned silence. “Newt’s really gone, then?” Frypan asked. “For sure?”

Minho nodded, gaze drawn to the grass Thomas had vanished into, yearning to run after him.

“And how long ya known that?” Gally asked, voice strained. “Hey!” He reached over and whacked Minho’s arm, drawing his attention back. “Why wouldn’t you tell us you knew for sure? We have just as much right to know as you two slintheads do!”

Minho raised his hands. “Thomas only told me two nights ago, alright? I’m sorry I didn’t say anythin’ sooner. I’m really sorry.”

Gally shook his head and Frypan stared at him.

“Look, Frypan—”

“No, Minho, no. you don’t just hide somethin’ like that. We been wonderin’ all this time what happened. We were pretty sure he was dead seeing as he aint here, but there’s a whole world of difference between supposin’ and knowin’! You shoulda told us soon as you knew. _Thomas_ shoulda told us. Two months, Minho, two months!” Frypan yelled, throwing his arms in the air.

Guilt and anxiety roiled in his guts in a sickly mix as the urge to protect Thomas swelled.  “Look, I’m sorry, alright! The guilt’s been eatin’ him alive, thinkin’ he coulda tried to save Newt. He only told me ‘cause he couldn’t cope on his own anymore, and he didn’t want anyone to know yet. I’m really, _really_ shuckin’ sorry. I should’ve told you guys. I’m sorry.”

The three watched each other for a tense few moments, Jahnavi and Andrea forgotten witnesses. To Minho’s surprise, Gally nodded first.

“I’m still pissed,” He said. “But I get it. You shouldn’t’ve kept it from us.”

“I know.” Minho ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, Gally. I know you and Newt didn’t get along, but you’re a Glader too. I shouldn’t’ve forgotten that.”

“Damn right,” Gally muttered with another nod.

They looked to Frypan, who was shaking his head back and forth, scowling down at the ground. “It aint right, Minho.” He pushed off hard from the ground and started walking away, back straight with righteous anger.

“Fry—”

“Nah, Gally.”

Gally raised his eyebrows at Minho, then set off after Frypan. He watched them go, watched as Gally put his arm around Frypan’s shoulders again, heads bent close as they talked.

“Don’t go after them, either,” Jahnavi commented.

Minho started, then felt a flush of shame working up his neck. “Sorry you had to see that,” He muttered. Anger was boiling up, at himself, at the whole shuck-damned situation, at Frypan’s refusal to try and see the other side of things. He wanted to run until he couldn’t think, punch the ground until his hands were broken splinters, scream until he was breathing blood. He jumped again at Jahnavi’s hand on his tense shoulder.

“Hey, Minho. Everyone makes mistakes. I mean, that was a pretty bad one, but from what I can tell you were trying to protect Thomas. He’ll come around.”

Minho forced himself to nod.

“Is that why Thomas has been so reluctant to participate in anything?” Andrea asked, watching him curiously. He straightened up from his hunch and tried his best to look like the leader they thought he was.

“Yeah. We’ve all been through a lot.”

“I know,” She nodded understandingly. “He’s a good part of the team, but he keeps to himself too much. Maybe now he can start contributing better. When he comes back, anyway. Take care.” She headed back to her job.

Jahnavi patted his back then hauled him to his feet. “C’mon, back to work. He’ll come back sooner or later, and your friend will forgive you. Let’s just work for now, let the rest sort itself out.” He reluctantly followed her back to the log pile, worry and anger making him tense and jittery. Seeing he couldn’t concentrate, Jahnavi suggested he just chop up wood for the fire rather than careful beam shaping. He set to with gusto, trying not to think about the betrayal in Frypan’s expression, Gally’s anger, and Thomas’ grief. He tried not to worry what Thomas was doing, just running out into the grass. He wasn’t thinking properly, what if he got disoriented? No, Minho reconsidered, remembering Thomas’ instinctual sense of direction in the Maze. He wouldn’t get lost. But maybe he wouldn’t come back.

_Thwack._ The next log split into sections in a flurry of wood chips. The axe burned his hands raw with each swing, rough wood scouring his palms from holding it too tightly, but he could imagine the stress and fury with himself being split apart like the log, splintering out of him with each swing, grounding into the earth. His jaw hurt from clenching and his throat was tight and his shirt stuck irritatingly to his back from sweat, but he didn’t want to be scrutinised for his scars or the tattoo just that moment.

_He’ll be okay, he’ll come back. He just runs when he’s upset. He’ll come back soon._ Minho told himself, though he couldn’t make even his own internal voice convincing. _Things were going so well._

He didn’t notice the zone of isolation around him; the others brought logs for him and took away the smaller blocks without him noticing. They didn’t talk to him, just let him get on with things. He didn’t realise he was exuding a very palpable air of tension and worry that made the others avoid him, consciously or not.

By the time all the logs were done, it was getting on for late afternoon and although he was tired, his mood hadn’t changed. Jahnavi, who had been watching him from nearby, approached and took the axe from him.

“Feel any better?” She asked, wincing as she saw the bloody, blistered state of his hands.

“No,” Minho answered, blinking down at his palms. He’d registered the pain, but it didn’t feel all that connected to him. “What time is it?”

“An hour or two before dinner. C’mon, I think Jerome has some bandages.” She led him off to find their resident medic, who Brenda worked with during the day. The man shook his head and started carefully cleaning Minho’s hands. As he was starting to wrap them up, Andrea found them.

“Hey, have you seen Thomas?”

Minho’s stomach clenched. “He’s not back yet?”

Andrea shook her head, looking surprised. “I thought he’d come find you.”

Minho swallowed. Jerome tapped his fingers. “Hands open, please, unless you want them bandaged like that.” He nodded down at Minho’s clamped fists.

Minho relaxed his hands with difficulty. “I thought he was back and avoiding me. He really isn’t back yet?”

Andrea shook her head, looking worried instead of annoyed now. “Is it like him to do this?”

Minho shook his head, jaw tightening. “Not like this. Not for so long. He should be back by now.”

Jerome sucked his teeth and tied off the bandages. “Look after your hands, come to change the bandages in about three days.”

“Thanks,” Minho said absently, following Jahnavi and Andrea back to the clearing. With nothing to do, he waited in the clearing where he had last seen Thomas, staring out into the darkening skies and grasslands, hoping to see something.

“You shouldn’t pace,” Jahnavi said quietly after some time. “It’s making people edgy.”

“Why isn’t he back yet?”

“Minho, relax,” She replied, hand on his shoulder. “He probably just needs space to think. Hell, sometimes the lack of privacy really gets to me, I don’t blame him.”

“But this isn’t like him. He should be back.”

She squeezed tightly. “He’ll be back. Are you going to sit down?”

Minho shook his head, gaze fixed on the waving grass. _Back before sundown, before the Doors close, you know that._ He gritted his teeth. _This is not the Maze._

Time ticked maddeningly on as Minho stood or paced, always watching the grass. The others avoided him as dark fell and all that measured the ever-extending time that Thomas had been gone was the metronome sway of grass and the frantic thoughts racing around Minho’s brain.

What if he was hurt? What if he’d been attacked? Killed? Was he laying somewhere out there, in desperate need of help, wondering why no one had come looking for him? What if he’d wanted Minho to run after him, was staying away as punishment? What if he didn’t make it back before dark and had to stay out there all night, possibly injured, maybe dead, thinking Minho didn’t care? It got cold at night, what if he was too injured to make it through the night? He could die of exposure out there. What if he’d been captured in some way? What if he needed rescuing? What if he’d just decided the guilt was too much, and…

Frypan called dinner. Minho sat on a tree stump and ignored the noise and activity, straining his eyes for any sign of movement out there in the failing light. After some time, footsteps sounded beside him.

“He’s still not back yet?”

Minho shook his head. “Hi, Brenda.”

She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “I feel like we should be out there, looking for him.”

“We don’t know here he went, and it’s dark now. We couldn’t range far with only lit branches.” The logic, repeated over and over in his head, felt sour in his mouth. From Brenda’s grimace he guessed it was no comfort to her either.

She sat down beside him. “He’s been much better the past day or two. Now this. What happened, exactly?”

He woodenly relayed the incident to her.

“So that’s what happened,” She said quietly when he was done. “He wouldn’t say, but I knew something horrible had happened between us splitting then his going back to WICKED. I thought maybe he’d started to heal. Move on.” She glanced sideways at Minho, who looked back out at the grass.

“I should’ve gone after him before he got too far out,” Minho said, voice scratchy from disuse. “Who knows where he is now.”

“Staying away this long is selfish of him,” Brenda said firmly, looking displeased. “I get needing a bit of space. But running away for the whole afternoon, abandoning his job, leaving you to worry, not coming back before sundown…”

“I think something must have happened,” Minho confessed, worrying at the frayed edge of one of his bandages. She swatted at his hand. “He wouldn’t do this. He _wouldn’t_. He must’ve been attacked or hurt in some way so he can’t come back. He just wouldn’t do this.”

“What out there could hurt him? There’s no one else around, Minho.”

“So why isn’t he back yet?” He asked, then clicked his jaw shut. There was far too much hurt and vulnerability in his voice.

Brenda sighed, then lightly clasped his wrist. “I don’t know, Minho. But I know he cares about you, and he wouldn’t leave like this.”

He felt his cheeks burning, but nodded in thanks. They sat together in silent vigil, watching the stars peek out. More people slowly joined – Jahnavi, Andrea, Jorge, some of the other scouts. Even Gally had simply walked up to the small gathering, handed out lit brands, and sat solidly down to watch. The last person to join was Frypan, who handed Minho a bowl of stew without quite looking at him. He ate it without tasting, unaware of anything but the vague sound of the grass and the silhouette against the sky.

“If he’s not back by morning we’ll organise a search,” Andrea said eventually.

“He must be hurt,” Minho said hollowly. “He must be injured out there.”

A short silence followed. He knew the others were wondering what he was thinking.

“Minho,” Frypan said eventually, in a heavy voice. “This isn’t the Maze. There aint no Greivers that could hurt him. No one out there but himself. If he’s not back, it’s by choice.”

Anger gave warmth to his numb limbs, but he didn’t reply. He wouldn’t try something to end it. He wouldn’t. Minho clung to the thought with all his strength. They’d all thought no one could survive a night in the Maze – until Thomas had done it. He was a survivor. He’d been through hell, but he wouldn’t do what they all seemed to think he’d done.

_But all it takes is a moment of doubt_ , Minho’s brain unhelpfully reminded him. He shook his head. _He’ll be back. Injured and upset, but he’ll be back._

But with every swish of the grass and slow track of the moon across the sky, Minho’s thoughts dissolved until he was a mess of sick worry. Brenda laced their fingers together, careful of his bandages, and he was grateful for her. When he glanced at her, she gave a grim, slow nod, and squeezed his fingers. _He’ll be okay._

At least no one suggested they should get some sleep. Even if they thought Thomas was gone, they knew Minho would wait until they knew for sure.

The moon was past its zenith when Minho’s tired, gritty eyes at last spotted movement. Far off, only just visible. A single figure.

He was running before his brain could catch up with his eyes, heart going a hundred miles an hour as he pushed his limits and exceeded them, running as fast as he possibly could, towards that lone person. He could hear pounding running behind him but didn’t turn, and he soon outstripped them easily, streaking off into the grass heedless of the danger of running full pelt at night.

The person was hobbling. No, inching slowly, agonisingly, through the grass in tiny, shuffling steps. Was it Thomas? He was still too far to see. There was nothing but the juddering pain of his legs as he ran towards the injured person, the sickening tear of each breath in his chest and the panicked screaming in his head drowning out every other thought, his eyes fixed on the slowly-nearing figure. He saw Grievers out of the corner of his eye, Cranks in every stalk of grass, WICKED employees in the skies. _Get to Thomas, save him from them, get them to the Hole…!_

Then, a voice, ragged with pain and faint from distance. “Minho!”

“Thomas!” He screamed back breathlessly, almost unintelligible. He found another well of strength and speed in him as he whipped through the grass. The figure stopped, swaying on the spot, and by now he could almost see the pale moon of his face.

His legs cried out for reprieve and his chest was on fire as he strained with every ounce of muscle and will in his body to close the distance, each pounding stride at a time, each agonising gasp of breath, lightning pounding around him everywhere, threatening to strike him again in the desert storm, until, at last…

He crashed into Thomas, nearly knocking them both down, arms tight around his lover as he sobbed for breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Thomas whispered, clinging back just as tightly as Minho fought to gain enough wind to speak. His hands swept frantically over Thomas’ body, checking for injury.

“What happened?” Minho forced out. “Who attacked you? Did you get away from the Grievers? Don’t leave, please don’t leave me, don’t ever do that again…”

“Sshhh, shh, Minho, I’m okay, I got injured but I’m okay—”

“I thought WICKED had you,” Minho sobbed, tears streaming acidly down his face. “I thought the Grievers had you, I thought you were gone forever, everyone thought you were dead, I thought they had you, they had you, they took you away, took you, gone…”

“Minho no one got me, we’re not in the Maze, we’re not in the Trials,” Thomas said, seizing each side of Minho’s head and looking him in the eyes. “We’re out of there. We’re free.”

Minho closed his eyes and felt Thomas rest his forehead against his. “Shhshhshhh,” Thomas hushed quietly. “It’s alright, Minho. I’m okay.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

He felt Thomas’ fingers on his cheeks, wiping away the tears and trying to calm him down from the blind panic that refused to recede. “I fell in a ditch,” Thomas said with a strangled laugh. “I was running so hard away from everything I didn’t watch where I was going. I can’t walk properly, it’s too painful. Something happened to my leg, my hips, my foot. That’s why it took so long. I’m so sorry I ran, Minho, I needed to get away from everything for a while.”

“I thought they’d taken you,” Minho cried, his voice cracked and warbling up a few octaves as he clung to Thomas.

“No one took me, I’m okay, I’m right here,” Thomas said firmly. “We’re out of the Trials.”

The terror abruptly popped like a soap bubble and he was left exhausted and confused, crying brokenly as his heart thundered to a slower pace. Thomas held him close and shushed quietly, arms tight. He lost track of time, his brain scrambled and his body weak, unable to focus on anything but Thomas’ very real presence.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered as he slowly regained control of himself.

Thomas pulled back, his own eyes wet, then kissed him firmly. Then he leaned their heads against each other for a few moments. Dimly, Minho could hear the running of the others, slower and still some distance away, but coming closer.

“Your leg,” He said, his voice wrecked from the strain of it all. “You fell in a ditch?”

Thomas nodded and wiped his eyes. “Stupid, right.”

“Very.”

“What happened to your hands?” Thomas asked, holding them up and squinting in the moonlight.

“Doesn’t matter.” Minho could hear the others more clearly now, and stepped to Thomas’ side, arm around his waist. Thomas gripped his shoulder and leaned on him. “C’mon.” They started hobbling back towards the others, Thomas leaning heavily on Minho; it was clear each step was excruciating for him to even put the slightest weight on his leg. Minho marvelled that he’d come as far as he had under his own steam. He pushed away memories of finding Newt splayed out on the ground, bone jutting through his skin. _No. Here. Now. Thomas. Not Newt._

The others stumbled to a stop around them after a few minutes, blowing hard. “Bloody Runners,” Frypan wheezed. Brenda gave a distressed cry at the sight of them and immediately took up position on Thomas’ other side, helping bear his weight and suspending him a bit from the ground.

The party slowly made its way back to camp. Thomas explained what had happened, shamefaced. Andrea shook her head. “You idiot. You’ve has us all worried, we thought you’d done something stupid.”

Thomas blinked at her in confusion for a second, then his eyes widened. He looked around at the others, who could only meet his gaze for a second before looking away grimly. He turned to Minho, who knew he was thinking of Newt, and squeezed his hip gently.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, voice thick. “I’m really sorry, everyone.”

They continued on in silence. Minho felt exhaustion beginning to work on him, the exertion of his jobs earlier, the stress and panic of earlier, the sheer physical demand of that mad run through the grass… his legs trembled and his shoulders drooped, but he set his jaw and grimly stayed by Thomas’ side, refusing Frypan’s silent request to relieve him. At some point, Thomas passed out from the pain, his head lolled against Minho’s shoulder, and he and Brenda carried him wordlessly, with Gally and Jahnavi supporting them on each side like a stumbling many-legged beast. As long as the run had seemed, the walk was eternal. Birds were starting to call out the sunrise when they reached camp again, struggling towards Jerome’s medic ‘tent’ with the few early risers staring at them. Andrea had run ahead to wake him so everything was prepared.

“Thomas,” Minho said tiredly, patting his hip and nudging his head. “Wake up.”

He stirred and immediately moaned in pain. “What is it?”

“Jerome needs to examine you.”

He sighed and hobbled with them, letting Gally and Jahnavi step away from Minho and Brenda. Jerome gestured impatiently and they finally reached him, settling Thomas down with difficulty on a makeshift bench. As soon as he was there, Minho felt his own legs give out and collapsed on the ground. He rolled on his back and closed his eyes, hands over his face. Everything ached and his head pounded like a hammer on an anvil.

“You okay?” Jahnavi asked, crouching by him. He grunted. “Still conscious?” He grunted again. “Good. Rest there a second.”

“Minho?” Thomas asked.

“I’m okay,” He replied tiredly. “Gimme a minute and let Jerome examine you.”

Jerome shooed everyone else out, apparently deciding to let Minho stay on the floor, and did his job. Everything was quiet, apart from the odd hiss of pain as Jerome tested his foot, leg and hip. His mind was thankfully silent, empty and echoing.

“Your leg is severely sprained,” Jerome pronounced after some time. “Your foot is heavily bruised and swollen, as are your knee and hip joints. Some toes are broken, and you’re lucky that’s all – I wouldn’t want to set your ankle with the supplies I have here. There’s not much I can do except strap everything up and prescribe bed rest until the swelling goes down. No running for a long while. Keep your weight off it. Now, you.” Jerome said, and Minho took his hands from his face and blinked up at him. Jerome looked down at him with raised eyebrows, quickly assessing him. “Exhaustion. Bed rest for you too. Now. You can sleep here for the day.”

He called outside for Jahnavi, who helped Minho to his feet and to a makeshift cot in the corner. He happily collapsed there instead, stretching his legs out as instructed, and felt his eyelids tugging closed, everything going dark and fuzzy around the edges. He saw Jerome starting to strap up Thomas’ ankle before he passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

TW Explicit violence and injury, hallucinations, night terrors.

ALSO I made a music mix for this fic?? whoah. It's here ([x](http://8tracks.com/spanglebangle/i-hope-that-it-s-enough-razed-rebuilt)) and I worked pretty hard on it, meaning that in the exact two months since I updated this I had a metric ton of feelings about it. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

 

Minho swam in darkness. He was conscious of nothing but the mere fact of his own consciousness, a ghostly awareness in the pure emptiness around him. It was silent and cool in the dark, and there was no bodily sensation, no pain, no feeling of his own body, no thoughts echoing out into the blackness. He simply floated, eyeless but conscious. There was no sense of time or urgency or any memory. Just blessed emptiness, seeping into him and soothing. He was nothing, nobody. No past, no present, no future. He simply existed in the void, and everything was calm and still.

And without him even being aware of it, the void of emptiness changed, became a void of pure light. He wasn’t aware of the change until it was complete, and he began to be afraid. There was no memory or explanation as to why this plane of pure white should be inherently frightening. It was empty but for his ghost, and stretched on for eternity all around him. He was alone, but the peace of the darkness was slowly overwhelmed with nervous tension, and he changed from an empty consciousness to a nebulous cloud of fear. The empty whiteness seemed to stab at him, and he blinked the eyes that appeared in him. The brightness hurt his eyes, and he squinted around himself. As he looked, he found he was standing on the whiteness, a promontory of solidity in what had only been void, his feet bare and body cold. He stretched his new body, dim echoes of pain starting to make themselves known. He could suddenly feel and hear his own breath, panting and rushing noisily in and out of his lungs, drying and cracking his lips. As his body spun itself from the nothingness, the fear flooded every part of him.

He cowered in the empty whiteness, crouched on the pedestal of solid matter under his feet, arms trembling over his head to protect him from the ever-increasing brightness, terror coursing like wildfire through him. He heard a distant whimpering, a high-pitched gasping of pitiful proportions, and realised it was his own.

_They’re coming._

The thought was as loud as a shout and he cringed from it, covering his eyes from the awful light to no avail, as it streaked through his fingers and eyelids as if he were truly nothing. He flattened himself as much as he could into the floor, feeling out the edges with his fingers and finding it only just wide enough. Any small movement and he would fall, as if from a huge height, into the accusing light all around him.

_They’re coming._

He cried out and curled in on himself. There was no memory to accompany the thought that screamed all around him, only fear that ‘they’ would hurt him. He cracked open his eyes as much as he could bear, and as he watched, bruises began to bloom on his skin. On his arms, legs, torso, face. Cuts opened and began to bleed, a riot of scarlet and plum and green and necrotic black on his skin and bleeding onto the plinth.

_They’re here._

He screamed out, a raw and primal noise of absolute horror that was deadened and flattened by the absence of everything around him.

_Choose!_

It was male and filled with fury, the voice that formed. _Choose!_ It shouted again, and he was on his back and helpless as a burly man dressed in white pummelled him.

“Choose!” The man yelled, spittle spraying over Minho’s face. Minho had time to draw a shaky breath before the man’s fist slammed into his jaw. Teeth went flying and his gums liquidised, pulpy blood swirling in his mouth and gushing down his throat. He gave a garbled scream and the man punched his nose, breaking it with a sickly crack that echoed as loud as the man’s voice, blood spurting across the man’s pure white clothes, spattering liberally over both their faces.

“Choose!”

His jaw shattered and bones struck through his skin. The man’s fist crunched into the side of his head and Minho screamed in agony – the vision on his left side filled with blood as the orbit of his skull caved and the fragile sphere of his eye was demolished.

“Choose!”

He was helpless, pinned on his back and unable to do anything but scream, unable to bring his arms up to protect his face or hit back, unable to even understand what he was supposed to choose. Everything was pain and terror as his face was systematically brutalised. His cheeks, jaw, nose, eyes, skull, ears. He was sobbing and screaming through the blood in his throat, half-drowning while the man demanded he choose, choose, choose…

Then the man’s gore-streaked hands were around his throat and Minho’s ruined eyes widened, the only thing he could see the man’s features twisted with hate. The man leaned closer to whisper, that quiet rasp somehow the worst thing yet.

“You didn’t choose, A7.”

The hands squeezed around his throat, the man’s fingers meeting and his thumbs pressing down into his trachea. Minho choked and tried to draw a wheezing breath as the pressure in his head redoubled with each frantic beat of his heart. His ruined jaw opened and closed, frantically trying to get any air into his lungs as his vision started to fade, gasping fruitlessly.

Then, the last thing he knew he would ever hear. “You didn’t choose, A7. And now they’re all going to die.”

The hands tightened abruptly and he awoke screaming and wheezing for breath.

“Minho!”

Thomas’ voice shocked him into awareness and he ran his hands over his face, his whole body shaking as he checked for the injuries that he _knew_ were there, they hurt so badly… but there was nothing to feel. His face was whole. He blinked both functioning eyes and ran his tongue over his teeth, all in order, no empty or bleeding gums. He leaned to the side and spat out the foul taste of blood, but his spit was clear.

“Minho?”

Minho slowly raised his head to look at Thomas, who was laying on a cot nearby, leg strapped up as he strained to lean over to Minho, a hand reaching out. After a moment, Minho shuffled to his side and curled up, leaning against the leg of the cot. He hunched in on himself, trembling hands over his head as a barrier. Tears poured hot, fast and silent down his cheeks, his body still stressed and terrified from the nightmare.

He felt Thomas’ hand very lightly rest on the back of his neck, a warm reminder of where he was and all that had happened. He heard running footsteps and the canvas of the tent opening.

“What happened?” Jahnavi asked breathlessly. Minho didn’t look up, didn’t move. “We heard screaming.”

There was a pause and Minho knew Jahnavi was looking at him.

“It’s okay, Jahnavi,” Thomas answered. “Minho had a nightmare.”

There was another heavy silence, and Minho thought Jahnavi and Thomas were mouthing questions and answers to each other. He couldn’t bring himself to care, to feel annoyed they were keeping it from him, or even embarrassed to be so undone in front of someone whose opinion mattered so much to him. He could just about handle breathing and thinking at the same time, and that was it. Footsteps, the closing of the tent canvas, and they were alone again.

Thomas’ fingers stroked gently over the back of his neck, little sweeps from his hairline to the jut of vertebrae. Minho tried to sift through the emotions rioting in his head and body and sort out what was real from dream, pushing away the memories that had inspired the dream and focussing only on evening out his breathing, stopping the tears, and the warm touch of Thomas’ hand.

Once he was calmed enough to straighten out of his hunch and look up, Thomas spoke very quietly. “You were screaming and choking in your sleep. I tried calling out but you didn’t hear me, and I couldn’t get over to you.”

Minho nodded and closed his eyes, feeling exhausted all over again. He leaned his head against Thomas’ cot and reached up blindly, his fingers almost vibrating from stress until Thomas’ other hand took them in his own and squeezed firmly.

“You haven’t had one that bad before.”

Minho shook his head. Words were beyond him for the moment.

“We’re safe here, Minho. We’re free of WICKED. I’m here with you. It’s going to be okay.”

Minho bit his lip hard as tears threatened again and took a ragged breath. Thomas kept stroking over his neck and into his hair, squeezing his other hand tightly. Minho lost track of time, drifting thoughtlessly as he slowly calmed. From the noises of camp outside it seemed like it was mid-afternoon. He could hear people moving around outside the tent, talking in low voices, and he had the distinct impression somebody, probably Jahnavi, was stopping anyone from disturbing them.

A long time later, words came back to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, his voice a rusty wreck.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It’s okay. Painful, and I won’t be able to walk on it for a couple days, and it’ll be a while before I can run, but okay.”

Minho nodded, relieved. They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding each other.

“Were you dreaming about the Maze?” Thomas asked eventually.

Minho’s throat tightened and he reflexively gripped Thomas’ hand tighter. “No,” He managed. “You remember after the Scorch, we all got separated?” Thomas nodded and gently rubbed into his hair. “I never really said what happened to me, did I?”

“No,” Thomas said softly. “But I gathered it wasn’t ice cream and cake all day.”

Minho took a long breath and concentrated on the feeling of his fingers, the warmth of the day, and the quiet dark of the tent.

“We all had another phase of trials, or whatever. Mine was one of the shortest, apparently. But it was horrible. They… they had a list of our names. They said everyone on the list was gonna be killed and get their brains dissected, and I could choose one person to live.” He swallowed with difficulty, feeling hands around his neck and blood in his mouth. Then Thomas gently scritched his nails against Minho’s neck and the feeling faded. “I wouldn’t choose. So they beat me. Pretty bad. Like, it made what Jorge did seem like a friendly hug and a kiss on the shuckin’ cheek. And the guy kept telling me to choose, and I wouldn’t, and he’d hit me and told me to choose… it went on for a while. I could fight back a bit, but after I while I… it hurt too bad. I just lay there while he beat me.”

Thomas made a noise like an angry cat. “Those fucking…”

“I wouldn’t choose anybody.” Minho felt his spine stiffen a bit. “Even after all that, everything he was doing to me, I wouldn’t choose. Eventually Rat Man said it was over, and they let me go. I didn’t really know until later, when I saw the others again, that it was really just a test. I thought that I’d killed everyone by not choosing. Especially ‘cause everyone was saying you’d turned Crank and they took you away, I thought for sure they’d killed you.”

Thomas shifted in his cot and leaned down with difficulty, wrapping his arms around Minho and holding him tightly. Minho leaned into him, taking unsteady breaths. “It was worse in the dream,” Minho choked out. “I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t say anything. And he killed me for it.” He raised a shaky hand to his throat and massaged it, expecting bruises. Thomas squeezed him tighter and rested his mouth against Minho’s hair.

“I dunno if I could’ve done that,” Thomas said, voice tight with restraint. “And you never said anything about this.”

Minho shrugged. “I didn’t wanna think about it.”

Thomas held him for a while, his own hands shaking with suppressed rage. Minho felt empty and tired all over again, like he hadn’t slept at all. His body throbbed with pain, especially his legs and feet, and his hands burned under the bandages. A steadily pounding headache started behind his eyes and spread to his temples and over the back of his skull until he felt like one giant bruise. He sagged against the cot, hands falling limply back to his lap as his eyes drooped.

“Move your bed over to here,” Thomas said. “I’ll look after you.”

Minho grunted and slowly got to his feet, everything aching. He moved the cot to beside Thomas’, and lay down curled towards Thomas.

“Go back to sleep,” Thomas said quietly, watching him and taking his hand again. “You’ll feel better after.”

Minho’s eyes closed and he concentrated on the feeling of Thomas’ hand before falling back into darkness.

The next time he woke, it was night and Thomas was stroking his hair, sitting now in a chair beside Minho’s bed, his splinted and wrapped leg stretched out carefully. Minho kept his eyes closed for a while, quietly soothed by the rhythmic motion of Thomas’ hand through his hair. At least he hadn’t had any dreams that time.

“What’re you doin’ to my hair,” He muttered with a smile, peering up at Thomas.

Thomas smiled back at him. “Improving it. Are you feeling okay?”

“Better than before. Did I miss anything?”

“Jahnavi came by a few times to see how you were doing. Gally and Fry and James, too. Gally said he’s worked something out with Li but it can wait until tomorrow. Fry said there’s food left over for you, when you want it.”

Minho’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and they both smiled.

“Jerome said you should be fine after some food and another rest, but not to overdo it tomorrow.” Thomas hesitated, his fingers twisting in Minho’s hair. “I didn’t wanna ask just yet, but with your nightmare… when you caught up to me last night, you were confused. Like you didn’t know where we were.”

Minho said nothing and pulled Thomas’ hand out of his hair to hold it close to his chest.

“You’re not okay, are you Minho. You’ve been doin’ a great job convincing everyone you are, but you’re not.”

Silence stretched out uncomfortably, and Minho hugged Thomas’ hand, brushing his lips over the backs of his fingers.

“No,” He whispered. “I’m not okay.”

“We’ll figure it out, Minho. I’ll help you through this.”

“You’re not okay either.”

“No,” Thomas admitted. “But I know what’s going on with me.”

“You need to stop beating yourself up over Newt,” Minho said quietly, kissing Thomas’ fingers. “It was awful, but it happened. He asked you to do it, and you gave him what he wanted. You can’t go runnin’ off whenever the guilt gets too much or someone says his name. We’ve all done awful shit. You need to talk to us instead of runnin’ away.”

He heard Thomas gulp. “I’ll try.”

Minho nodded and kissed his fingers again.

“So what’s going on with you?” Thomas asked.

Minho took a few moments to collect his thoughts. “It’s not just the nightmares, though they’re bad enough. I keep… seeing people. Thinkin’ I’m back in the Glade, that Alby’s still alive, or in the Scorch or Denver. Seein’ and feelin’ things I know aren’t real, or are just memories.”

Thomas was quiet for a long time. Minho kept hold of his hand, feeling shaky and uncertain. “I don’t know how to help you, Minho.”

“This is helping.”

“What is?”

“Talking. Touching.” He kissed Thomas’ hand again, and Thomas stroked gently over his cheeks and lips. “I need you. I need you to help me remember what’s real.”

Minho looked up to meet Thomas’ eyes, pleading. He didn’t care if he seemed weak or vulnerable or pathetic. He just needed some honest fucking support. Thomas stroked over his face, his expression upset but determined. “Whatever you need, Minho. I’ll help however I can.”

Minho sighed in relief, eyes closing briefly. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Thomas stroked up into his hair again. “You’ll be alright, Minho. You’re the toughest shuck-face I know.”

“Damn right,” Minho smiled as he scrubbed his cheeks dry. “I can kick your ass from here to next Tuesday and never break a sweat.”

“Definitely.”

They heard footsteps and quiet voices, then Jahnavi poked her head around the tent flap. “Oh good, you’re up. Food’s arrived, and you should both eat something before it gets late.”

Minho nodded and sat up, his head pounding for a second before he got his balance. Jahnavi held back the flap wider and Gally and Frypan stepped through, holding a few bowls each.

“Hey,” Gally said, pulling a chair across with his foot and sitting near them. Frypan didn’t say anything but brought his own chair across and sat. They handed out the bowls and Thomas and Minho tucked in ravenously, both having slept through most of the day and not eaten. Frypan and Gally kept them quiet company, Gally the most relaxed of all of them, rocking back on the chair that he’d probably helped make, eyes wandering aimlessly around the inside of the tent. Frypan sat tensely, hunched over with arms braced on his knees, his eyes burning a hole in the floor. Thomas sat quietly as he ate, swallowing nauseous guilt. Minho tried to ignore the rest of them and eat without spilling food from his trembly fingers.

“Wow,” Gally said at length. “Do you piles of clunk need me to start this off or what?”

Minho and Thomas looked at him in confusion, and Frypan scowled.

“Don’t look at me like that, Fry,” Gally said mildly. “Go on.”

While Frypan chewed over his words, Gally fished out a small knife and a piece of wood from a pouch at his belt and started whittling, his part apparently done.

“Minho,” Frypan said eventually, avoiding his gaze. “I’m still mad at you for not tellin’ us about Newt. But I get why you didn’t say anythin’ until yesterday.”

His gaze darted up to Minho’s, conflicted and angry, but concerned. Minho nodded and cleared his throat. “I understand, Frypan. I really do. If I were in your shoes I woulda punched me in the shuckin’ face. I’m really sorry.”

Frypan nodded, then turned to Thomas who visibly tensed. “Thomas. You definitely shoulda said somethin’. Minho said you’re all cut up about Newt, and that’s why you ran away. You gotta stop keepin’ all this clunk to yourself. I’m pissed you never said anythin’, but we’re your friends, and we wanna help you.”

Gally looked up, caught Thomas’ eye, and nodded once. Then he turned back to his carving. Thomas was speechless for a few moments, fighting guilt and relief. “Thank you,” He said, looking down at his hands and blinking quickly. “I’m so sorry. Thanks.”

Minho reached over and gently took his hand. “Told you. And thanks, Frypan. It really means a lot, ‘specially ‘cause you’ve good reason to be angry.”

Frypan nodded and folded his arms. “Well. We’re all we’ve got, right. Might as well stick together.”

Minho thought he saw Gally give Frypan a very small smile and the sight of it, so innocently happy on Gally’s wreck of a face, warmed him down to his bones. He squeezed Thomas’ hand and the four of them sat quietly for a few minutes.

Brenda peered around the tent flap. “Private tea party in here?” She asked with a smile.

“Come in, Brenda,” Thomas smiled back at her. Minho shuffled over on his bed to give her some room, and she settled beside him. She leaned back against the end of the bed and rested her legs across Minho’s lap. He snorted in amusement and prodded her ankles.

“How you guys doin’, then?” She asked after nodding to Gally and Frypan. “You were dead on your feet yesterday.”

“We’re okay,” Thomas said, looking a little self-conscious to be holding Minho’s hand in front of everyone but he didn’t let go. “It’ll be a while before I’m back on my feet, but I’m okay. And Minho’s been resting.”

“Good,” She nodded, then poked Minho’s hip with her toes. He smiled at her and flicked her legs playfully. “Can’t have our leader falling over.”

“Course not. I’m tough as nails.”

“Bet I could take you.”

Minho grinned. “Maybe. You aint seen me in action.”

She snorted and looked him over with deliberate slowness, taking in his strong arms and legs, the bulky muscle of his torso. Then she pursed her lips and gave a razor-sharp smile. “Nah, you look kinda weedy to me. I could drop you in five seconds.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Tops.” She bantered back, both grinning widely at each other.

Minho laughed and patted her legs. “Let me know when you’re up for it, I’ll show ya what I can do.”

“Sure thing, tough guy. I’ll kick your ass, but sure.”

Frypan groaned and rolled his eyes. “There’s two of them, shuck’s sake. Save me, Gally.”

They laughed together, and Minho felt any remaining tension in his chest evaporate. He hadn’t got along with Brenda when they first met, too jealous and insecure over how Thomas seemed to be pulling away from him, and hadn’t spoken much with her over the past two months. But maybe that could change.

He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the floor. “Guys, um. I need your help with something.” He felt Thomas’ hand on his shoulder and gave them the same outline he’d given Thomas earlier. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I need your help.”

Thomas squeezed his shoulder in support as the others thought. He concentrated on slowing down his anxious heartbeat. Brenda was the first to talk.

“They used to call it shell-shock.” She said calmly. “It’s not all that uncommon.” Then she punched his shoulder gently but firmly. “You’re not going crazy.”

Minho nodded, speechless and glad somebody knew what was going on.

Frypan cleared his throat. “Minho, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. Of course we’ll help.” He got up, yanked Minho to his feet and hugged him tightly. Minho clung to him gratefully, overwhelmed that his friend was back again. Frypan slapped his back a few times then sat back down, looking a bit embarrassed. They all looked to Gally.

“I aint givin’ you a shuckin’ hug,” Gally said, blank-faced. “But I’ll help if I can. Us Gladers gotta stick together.” He glanced to Brenda. “And honorary Gladers.”

Minho nodded to him in thanks and noticed Brenda looked rather pleased to have been included. Thomas took his hand again and smiled reassuringly at him.

“Well, this has been fun. I’m goin’ to bed. You comin’, Fry?” Gally announced as he got to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.” Frypan nodded to them all.

“Night, Siggy,” Minho said quietly. Frypan patted his shoulder and left with Gally.

Brenda settled herself on the bed and rested her legs on Minho’s companionably. “I’m not goin’ anywhere just yet, boys. You still need to come up with some sorta plan about those pigs. James can only stay here so long, and the camp’s getting’ ready to make a decision. Jahnavi managed to put off tonight’s debate, but I get the feeling somethin’ needs to be decided tomorrow.”

Minho rubbed over his face, abruptly tired again. “I know. I have a few ideas to put to everyone.”

“Uh.” Thomas said. “There’s actually something I should tell you. It didn’t seem important last night, but uh. The ditch I fell in? It was around an abandoned field. When I was down in the dirt, I found this.” From his pocket, he pulled out a small, muddy carrot. They stared at it for a while. “Some of these were just growing in the field. I figure the original field got razed in the sun flares, but there must’ve been seeds or roots still in the dirt that didn’t get damaged. And like the forest, it started growing again.”

Brenda and Minho were silent, possibilities racing through their heads faster than they could process.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” Brenda breathed eventually, eyes wide. “We could _farm_ again _._ ”

-x-

“Settle down!” Minho yelled, banging his fist on the table and battling a headache. The gathering of everyone at the camp settled into a sullen quiet, disturbed by occasional muttering. It was the evening after Thomas had revealed the carrot, and everyone had gone wild over its discovery. If he didn’t get a grip on the situation it would spiral out of control.

“I know this is an exciting discovery,” He said, projecting his voice to carry over the crowd. “But we have to keep our heads here. One carrot doesn’t mean an entire field of them. It doesn’t mean we can start farming tomorrow, that more of us suddenly know _how_ to farm in the first place, or that we don’t still need to consider whether we can stay here. It doesn’t mean those pigs are any closer to us. We need to factor it into the decision we’re already making, not go mad and rush off to dig that field.”

There was another surge of muttering and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Despite another full night’s rest, and sleeping through the morning, he was still bone-tired. He hadn’t done much in the afternoon except talk with Jahnavi, the other section leaders and his friends, but he was worn out even by that.

“Okay, let’s open up the floor for more debate. Then I’ll talk with the leaders, and we’ll make a decision. Tonight.”

He gestured, and people began forming into their camps of thought and standing up, waiting to be allowed to speak. The debate progressed as it had the previous nights, and Minho felt his own decision strengthen in his head, pleased that when he proposed it, it would have a majority of support. He made sure to listen to everyone carefully, and adjusted a few things. Once everyone had been heard, he gestured for his ‘Council’ to join him a little distance away from the crowd.

“Thoughts?” He asked quietly.

The others glanced to each other, then back to him. Jahnavi answered him. “Seems to me most people have come to the same decision as you, Minho. I think you can suggest it.”

He looked to the others, who nodded one by one.

“Thank you. Does anyone have any other ideas, before I go with what we discussed earlier? Has anyone changed their minds since this afternoon?”

“There were a lotta people talkin’ sense,” One man said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “But I reckon you’ve got the best compromise for now.”

Minho clasped his shoulder in thanks. “All in agreement, then?”

They nodded, all looking relieved to have found an answer. “Thank you, everyone,” He said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “You’ve all put so much thought and effort and energy into this issue, and in making sure everyone’s views are represented. And I’m honoured you all approve of my idea. Thank you.”

His Council smiled at him. Andrea put her hand on his shoulder and smiled warmly. “You’re very young, Minho, but you’re dedicated. You’re a good man, and we trust you to have everyone’s best interests at heart. And you’re smart.”

Minho felt his cheeks warming, quietly delighted by her words. He knew he could only strive to live up to what they thought of him, and he was determined to try. Even with all the problems in his head, and his youth, and rashness, and anger issues, they trusted him to learn. They thought he was _smart_ , and capable, and a good person. His eyes stung from the sheer weight of that trust – _goddammit, can’t cry for two years then you’re a shuckin’ waterfall in the space of a week –_ and he straightened his back and shoulders, lifted his chin proudly. _I’ll do my best._

He nodded to them, and as a group they headed back to the gathering. With the Council seated around him, his friends within view off to the side, he stood firmly before the camp and spoke, his voice ringing with confidence, shoulders broad and level, head high, hands folded behind his back. He remembered Alby in the early days of the Glade, and fell into his particular way of speaking to them all.

“We’ve come to a decision. My friends, thank you all so much for all your thoughts, and I promise we’ve taken every point into consideration. If anyone is dissatisfied with the decision we’ve made, I urge you to come speak to me about it tomorrow.” He took a breath and looked out to the crowd, gaze flitting over the faces he could see in the firelight. “We’ve decided on four approaches. Firstly, the main group will stay here for the time being. Secondly, we will dispatch a small team of scouts with James to find this herd of pigs. They’ll have enough food to last them there, and will carry some very clever sections of unfolding fence, designed by Li and his team. They’ll find these pigs, round up a few pairs, and hold them there until help from the other group, led by Andi’s people, come to help. As a reinforced group, they’ll drive the pigs back here, all being well, and we can start trying to build up a sustainable herd. Thirdly, scouts will start longer journeys away from base, concentrating on learning more about the terrain and whether there are any other resources in this area. Fourthly, another small team of gatherers will head out to the field Thomas found, and investigate its viability. If they find sufficient plants, roots, seeds, whatever, they’ll bring what they can back, and find out whether we can develop this field. At that point, we’ll assess the situation again.” He waited, watching the crowd as they absorbed the information. “Is this acceptable?”

Slowly, people began to stand up, call out, stamp their feet, thrust their hands in the air. The noise swelled into a great shout of agreement as nearly everyone called their support. It took Minho’s breath away for a second. He glanced to his friends. Frypan nodded, looking proud. Thomas’ eyes shone. Gally folded his arms and lifted his chin, a satisfied tilt to his mouth. Brenda grinned widely at him. Jahnavi discreetly gave a thumbs-up. _I hope you’re proud of me, Alby. I hope I can be half the leader you were. And Newt, I hope I can be just as smart as you._

He looked back out to the crowd and grinned fiercely _._ He raised his arms and the noise slowly died down. “Thank you,” He called out to them. “We’ll need volunteers for all this. Please think carefully, and bring your names to your representative by tomorrow noon. We start this in two days.”


End file.
